A Slight Misunderstanding
by Coragyps
Summary: In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him.
1. Chapter 1

**.**

**A Slight Misunderstanding**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

(The author does not own any version of Sherlock and is making no profit from this work of fanfiction)

_._

_._

"Tell me, Shirley, what did you think was going to happen?" said Jim. "A man like you, with your gorgeous brain - did you think you were going to live happily ever after, in this wretched, _ridiculous_ civilization?"

Jim gestured with the long Steyr AUG rifle he was keeping loosely aimed in our direction. I growled, just one or two steps too far away to tackle him before he shot one of us. Sherlock had my Browning but so far he hadn't raised it; perhaps he was waiting for a better angle.

"There's no place for you. You're always going to be on the outside," said Jim, "Just a brain in a jar." He was gazing at Sherlock, holding his eyes like a hypnotist. "Everybody's going to try and use you for something. Every politician, every criminal, every _saint_ – " he barely glanced in my direction, keeping Sherlock at the center of his attention. "They all just want what you can do for them. They don't want you."

"As though that matters to me," Sherlock said scornfully. I wondered why he didn't try for a shot now, while Jim was distracted.

"That's right," Jim cooed, "for you it's all about the game. A mind like yours requires constant stimulation. But do you think any of them can understand that? No, they all belittle you behind your back, even if they're happy enough to call you when they need you."

I couldn't quite read the look in Sherlock's eyes. "You're not really listening to this, are you?" I demanded.

"Quiet, Pet, we'll get to you next," said Jim. His focus never wavered away from Sherlock, and I couldn't judge to what degree the words were affecting him.

"Do you think anyone but me can value the way you deserve?" Jim reached out to set a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, still talking in the same low, intimate tone. "Nobody can ever really understand you but me."

"Sherlock –"

"Nobody else will ever want you," he continued, relentless, "nobody will ever love you – nobody."

"Sherlock, it's not true," I said, knowing I might get shot for it; "_I_ love you."

It didn't come out right.

I meant it in the general sense, you know, like brothers; and certainly I loved Sherlock, as a good friend and a man that I had come to admire immensely. But even I have to admit, spoken out loud it sounded … different.

I blame the culture, myself. A man can't honestly love another man without it being all – you know – queer, or whatever. I just meant, I _love_ him.

But Sherlock turned to look at me, his eyes bright with curiosity. "You love me?"

"Oh come off it, a man will say anything when he's about to die," snorted Jim.

"Do you mean it?" asked Sherlock. It looked like I may have actually surprised him, for once.

Wordlessly, I nodded. Well, _in __for __a __penny_, etc …

"You're mad," said Jim, perhaps sensing this conversation was getting away from him. "You're letting the monkey distract you. Here, I'll take care of it for you - "

He raised the rifle in my direction, and I knew in that moment that he was going to shoot me, and there was nothing I could do about it. I turned my head and felt my entire body tense in preparation for the pain. Then at the last minute, I turned back; if this was death, I wanted to see it coming this time.

Without blinking, Sherlock turned and fired; the bullet sunk deep in Moriarty's skull. Although I have been a doctor and a soldier, I had to look away from the sight of brains splattered across the sidewalk.

"Well," said Sherlock, with no visible change of expression. He reached rather gingerly for my hand, and tucked it under his elbow. "Shall we go back to the flat, then?"

I could feel my heart-rate, steady and solid in my ears: _you're __alive_, _you're __alive_. "Sherlock …" I breathed.

"Yes John, rather quickly now, before the police show up, eh?" He tugged me along, and - like always - I followed behind him in his wake.

It was late and we were far from the main road: it would be hours before we could catch a cab, hours of trailing after Sherlock through the warren of London's backstreets. I was bushed, absolutely knackered. We had both almost been killed, again. Jim Moriarty was dead. I may have accidentally convinced my flatmate I was in love with him.

"Quickly, John."

And still, like an idiot, I followed him.

Of course I did.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

**Chapter Two**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

We finally hailed a cab at Whitechapel, and were soon speeding over the rain-slick streets towards home. The driver let me ride up front while Sherlock sat in the back seat, texting madly on his phone - I didn't even want to _know_ what was going on there.

We had been after Moriarty for months, and I had not slept more than five hours total in the past week. I couldn't have strung two sentences together, I was so tired: I just sat dumbly watching the fare meter slowly clicking up, or the digital numbers on the clock as they rolled around towards 3 AM.

It was obvious that the whole 'love' thing had just been a misunderstanding, and I would fix it – when I wasn't so knackered, when I could think straight again. I would explain the difference between _platonic _and _romantic _affection, and Sherlock would understand, and things would go on as they had been.

That was reasonable, right?

"Baker Street," said the cabbie, breaking into the silence.

I glanced in the rear-view mirror to Sherlock, who was ignoring us. "We're here," I said.

"Circle the block." He didn't look up from his phone.

"What? Sherlock, we don't have the cash …"

"_Circle the block._"

The cabbie pulled out obediently, and I sat back with a huff. From the back I could still hear the frantic clicking of Sherlock's keypad.

I stared out at the dark night and tried to imagine what it would be like to - _kiss_ Sherlock. Just as something of a thought experiment, obviously not something I had ever considered before. But, I mean, mouths are mouths, right? It should all still … work. I tried to picture taking his head in my hands and bringing our lips together, maybe stroking his cheek as I slipped my tongue into his mouth.

But when I kissed a woman, I focused on the softness of her skin, how sweet she felt under my hands. I was always gentle, letting us both be drugged by kisses, letting the passion build up slowly until finally I couldn't wait to be as close to her as I knew how to be.

So how the hell did that translate to Sherlock? It wasn't that he was a bad-looking chap, if you liked that tall, gangly sort, but there was no getting around the fact that he wasn't exactly _soft _or _gentle_ or _sweet_. More like _bristly_ and _kind of an arse. _Even apart from the whole issue of him being, you know, male, which was already a problem.

Perhaps it was just impossible to go from being mates into that kind of thing.

Maybe - and this was a troubling thought - maybe he would want be the one directing the kiss, maybe he would be snogging _me_. I couldn't even wrap my head around that; I had been with a few forward women but some things traditionally fell to the bloke, and so far, that had always been me.

I couldn't even _think_ about the shagging. For one thing it seemed faintly disrespectful, somehow. And Sherlock had never shown any sign that he thought of me that way – most times I wasn't entirely convinced he liked me at_ all_, judging by the number of times he called me dim or idiotic. Or brainless. Or Moronic.

"We're here again," said the cabbie.

Sherlock put away his phone and looked up. "Excellent. Hurry up, John, pay the man."

Oh yeah, because I was just _made _of money. Grumbling, I stuffed a handful of bills at the driver, leaving at least a decent tip because Sherlock had a habit of needing non-murderous cabbies at odd times.

He was already out of the car. "Come along, then."

I remembered to grab my jacket – no doubt spattered with blood and brains, thank you Sherlock – and followed him up to the flat, my anxiety increasing with every step. What exactly was he expecting here? He wouldn't want to jump into - anything, right?

Finally he unlocked and opened the door and I stepped inside after him.

"Leave your things by the door," he directed. "Anything that might contain evidence." So I dropped the jacket, and then my shoes and socks, the pants I was wearing, and my jumper. I never saw any of it again; Sherlock's irregulars were frightening meticulous.

Shivering in my shorts and my undershirt I must have cut a pathetic picture, but fortunately Sherlock was already in the kitchen, pacing back and forth between the sink and the fridge, muttering over his phone.

With nothing better to do with myself for the moment, I made for the settee and slowly reclined. One of Mrs. Hudson's dreadful knitted afghans was draped over the back, so I pulled it down over myself and laid my head against a pillow. Just for a minute, I told myself, it would be okay to relax, let my mind wander away from this whole weird situation. I was still here if Sherlock needed me, and I knew he wouldn't hesitate to wake me up …

* * *

><p>When I next opened my eyes I knew hours must have passed, because there was already faint light creeping in at the windows. But I was still heavy with exhaustion, and some nameless concern that tightened my chest.<p>

I sat up slowly and was immediately confronted with the sight of Sherlock, sitting curled in the upright chair.

"Sherlock?" He'd probably been up all night, the idiot.

"Mm?"

"Have you slept at all?"

His eyes flicked to mine. Wordless, he shook his head no.

A groaned, rubbing my face. "What time is it?"

"Just gone five."

With his arms wrapped around him like that, chin resting on his bony knees, he looked about twelve years old. I frowned. "Everything alright?"

"Don't know," he muttered, despondent.

I sat up slowly, feeling at a definite disadvantage. God, it was too early for this. "What is it, then? Did we miss something at the warehouse?"

"No."

"Worried we'll get in trouble with the police?" After all, we had murdered a man tonight.

He sniffed. "As if the police catch killers these days. Without my help."

"Well, talk to me, then. Even an idiot can tell something's up."

"Even an idiot," he repeated dully. He gave a gusty sigh. "You can't imagine what it's like, John, to be the only spark of intelligence in a world for imbeciles."

I ignored the personal insult with the ease of long practice. "I dunno," I said mildly, "I've driven through London traffic."

Not even a smile in response. "I've just killed my arch-rival," said Sherlock. "The one person who made my efforts against crime seem meaningful. I – I don't know for certain what I should be _doing_, now." His whole body tucked into a tight roll, he rocked faintly on the chair. "I just … don't know."

I felt a welling heat rise up from my belly, and was sure it was visible on my face. Over-dramatic as he was (and was he ever), I knew Sherlock had killed Moriarty for _me_. Not because of any moral judgment, not out of principle, but because I would have been shot. And because I said I loved him.

I knew in that minute that I wasn't going to tell Sherlock the truth. It didn't matter what I meant – I'd said it, and Sherlock had killed a man for it. Whatever came, I was going to live with the consequences.

I leaned forward, letting my hand rest on his shoulder. "You're to be with _me_, now," I said stoutly. "That's what happens after the villain dies, the hero gets his happy ending."

He looked up at me, his eyes huge in his colorless face. Then a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That's such rubbish."

A yawn caught me unexpectedly, and then another huge one right on its heels. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," I said, "I'm just bloody worn out. For now, can we just – get some sleep, and then talk about all this tomorrow? Is that okay with you?"

"Of course, John," said Sherlock. "You're tired, you should sleep. I don't mind."

"Nonsense, you're going to straight to bed yourself," I said. "Now, Sherlock, come on." It was instinctive for me to take that slightly bossy tone with him, as it was often the only way to make him respond.

"Not tired," he grumbled.

I got up stiffly, painfully, and my vision swam with exhaustion. And he _wasn't tired. _Yeah, right. Clumsily I reached for him, tugging on his shoulder to make him move, until my blind persistence paid off. He signed and rose, with evident reluctance.

I staggered up the stairs to my room, and was immediately aware of Sherlock following silently behind me.

"Sherlock?"

He politely held my bedroom door open for me. "Yes, John?"

I ducked under his arm, focusing on to my bed: I don't think I've ever been so happy to see it in my life, and that includes various nights in Kandahar I wasn't sure I'd ever sleep again.

He was still hesitating in the doorway.

A sudden thought struck me, like a blow. "Oh, were you – I'm sorry, are you planning on sleeping here?"

He hesitated. "Was this not what you wanted?" he inquired, tilting his head. "I'm sorry, John, but you're going to have provide some instruction here, it's not as if I do this sort of thing very often."

'This sort of thing?' Oh God.

"John?" The look on his face was one I'd seen in stray dogs; doubtful of receiving any kindness, but still wanting that warm meal he knew I could provide. Expecting a curse and a blow, but still hoping for a treat.

"Of course," I said at once, rashly. Hadn't I already said I was in? "That's fine, it's - fine. Here, come lay down. I'll get another pillow from the hall closet."

He brushed past me to enter the room, and without any apparent self-consciousness began to undress, pausing to kick off his shoes and then shrugging out of his trousers. I exhaled noisily and turned my head away so I wouldn't – see anything. Which was ridiculous; I'm a doctor, for heaven's sake. I forced myself to look back, just in time to see Sherlock sliding under my covers. He stretched out on his back, leaving space for me next to him, which was quite considerate, actually, for him.

"Right, then," I said. "Be right back."

Out in the hallway I was forced to take a series of deep breaths, leaning against the wall for support. I couldn't do this. I couldn't. But after a minute it passed, and I realized I would do it, because Sherlock apparently needed me to.

Two blokes sharing a bed, it wasn't that weird; I was in the army for God's sake, I was used to worse accommodations. _Breathe, John._

It would be alright, I told myself. As far as I knew Sherlock had no interest in sex whatsoever - which was fine, it was all fine - and he probably wouldn't want to change our relationship in any way, physically. Maybe he just liked hearing that I loved him, and didn't actually plan to _do_ anything about it. Maybe sharing a bed was as far as he'd ever want to take it.

I didn't believe for a second that he'd been secretly attracted to me all this time, or that he'd suddenly developed an interest in emotions and relationships, which he'd always despised. It was just the excitement of the night, or something.

When I came back in the room Sherlock was tucked under my drab white sheets, looking discouragingly wide awake.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"Mm, yeah. Pillow." I handed it to him. "Err – did you want to borrow some pajamas?"

"I'm in boxers," he said.

"Alright, then." There was no help for it; I lifted the corner of the cover and slipped gingerly into my own bed.

Sherlock immediately turned on his side and presented me with his back, keeping a good distance between us. So that was good, then; not expecting any snuggling, it seemed like.

I leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp. "Goodnight, Sherlock," I whispered.

I heard him grunt in return, but he didn't come any closer. I listened and couldn't even hear him breathing; maybe he was holding his breath.

I closed my eyes, quite determinedly thinking of nothing but how tired I was, and how good the pillow felt under my head, and how we had somehow both survived. Nothing could be so bad, I thought, as long as we were together and alive back atBaker Street. With everything that could have happened tonight – Sherlock killed, me killed, him choosing Jim over me – I found that I was well enough satisfied with how things were.

He shifted, and I tried not to flinch at the feeling of the sheets moving over both of us. It was strange – I had got used to sleeping alone, I guess.

_Breathe in. _Pause._ Breathe out. _Pause.

This was just _Sherlock_, I reminded myself; a man I had known in almost every way in the time we had been living together. I had seen him wounded, lively, childish, bored, valiant, slothful. There was nothing he could do that would ever change how I felt about him.

"Alright?" I whispered. I could just make out his profile in the half-light.

"Your sheets are thin."

I snorted, reached under the bed to find the spare blanket. It was probably a little dusty, but he didn't need to know. "Here, then. Now go to sleep."

Then, in the interest of factual accuracy, I leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's rather gaunt cheek. It was what I would have done with a woman, after all. I felt him tense minutely as I got close, but he permitted the gesture without protest, and as I laid back against the pillows and closed my eyes, it was with a sense of satisfaction in a duty that had been properly and honorably performed.

"Goodnight."

* * *

><p>I woke up abruptly to the sensation of being crushed under a heavy weight. I realized a second later that it was Sherlock, from his position with his whole body sprawled on top of me.<p>

"Sherlock!" I protested; his head somewhere above mine, and I had to turn away my face away from his neck to speak.

"Yes, I agree," he said, "this position is not satisfactory either."

He rolled off as I tried not to think about the many various ways he crushed me in our relationship. Then without a word his arms came around me and pushed me over onto my side; I humphed, then sucked in a breath as he cozied his limbs and his body up around mine. His knees curled up, nudging into the backs of my own so we were both coiled into a G, him on the outside, his arm latched tight around my middle.

"This would be an appropriate position for sexual intercourse," he mused, absently.

I tried not to freeze, knowing he'd feel it. He was not at all hard, that I could tell; most likely it was just an idle comment, not an indication of what was to come.

"Now I'm hot," he whined, from somewhere behind me on the pillow. He released me and I flopped over onto my back, blinking.

"Go back to sleep, John," he pouted.

* * *

><p>When I woke up the next morning, I thought at first that I was alone; perhaps had given up this whole experiment after all. But I glanced over and found myself face to face with his long, elegant feet, which were propped up on the pillow next to me.<p>

I sat up, and upon further investigation found him to be lying with his head at the far end of the bed, almost hanging off the end, with one hand loosely clasped around my ankle under the covers. It was like he was keeping hold of me, even in his sleep, like a tie between us.

Or like a manacle.

.

.

[**Author's Note**: _I was raised in Manchester, but that was a long time ago and this story / none of my stories have been Brit-picked. So I apologize for any Americanisms or bad early-eighties British slang that nobody uses any more. If you notice something, give a shout, eh?_]

.


	3. Chapter 3

**.**

**Chapter Three**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

I didn't have a lot of time to contemplate the utter oddity of waking up next to Sherlock Holmes, because as I lay there having a little nervous breakdown (just a very quiet one, you know), I heard his phone chirping from the bedside table, and then mine a few minutes afterwards.

It was always a bad sign when they went off together like that. It meant that somebody was trying to contact us in a hurry, and wouldn't take no for an answer. So, without dislodging Sherlock, who was apparently still asleep, I reached blindly for one of the phones (not like there was any large distinction between what was mine and what was his, these days).

I glanced at the date on the screen before I opened it, having really no idea what day it was. Sunday, it turned out. That was nice as I probably wouldn't be fired from the surgery until tomorrow – I hadn't been to work in weeks, not even bothering to call in, as lately our lives had shrunk down to a single point, which was the pursuit of Moriarty.

I also noted that it was almost 12:30 pm: I hadn't slept so late since my days at Uni.

There were seven unanswered text messages within the last hour, and they were all from Lestrade. Before I could open one, the phone went off again in my hand.

I picked up. "'Lo?"

"That John?"

"Uh, yes, I think Sherlock's still asleep … shall I rouse him for you?" I said it as if I could not see him, stretched out at the foot of my bed. He looked asleep to me, anyway.

"I've been calling," said Lestrade sourly, "he doesn't answer his phone anymore? Where the hell have you two been?"

"Err, yeah, sorry about that," I said. "New experiment - you know what he's like when he's fixated on something. Got a little carried away. Oh, here he is, he's awake." _Lestrade, _I mouthed, seeing Sherlock's head pop up into my field of vision.

"Tell him there's a case. He'll want to see it."

"Got a case," I said out loud, in a perfectly normal tone of voice that I was quite proud of.

Sherlock looked entirely pulled together, his hair barely more disheveled than usual even after a rather strenuous night of tossing and turning. His seemed merely pleased at the prospect of a new case, nothing else, whereas I felt like a jumpy wreck and was no doubt completely rumpled outside as well as in.

"Give it here," he said, reaching for it. I took up my own phone as he began to talk.

Seventeen missed calls. I scrolled through the list (Harry, the surgery, phone company – my life was not exciting). Sherlock was demanding more information from Lestrade, using some rather insulting language to elicit it. I sighed and got up to change.

His hand slid off my ankle, and I could still feel the heat from where it had been, as I hopped around trying to find clean pants.

I shivered.

"But how _long_ has it been there?" demanded Sherlock, his voice slow and flat the way it got when he was pretending to be patient.

His eyes followed me as I located a shirt and a jumper. I tried to pretend I was alone in the room as I stripped out of my undershirt, but I was aware of his unblinking gaze.

"Yes yes, fine, of course," he snapped into the phone, hanging up without saying goodbye. "Get ready to go, John, I think you'll want to see this case."

"We haven't had breakfast," I objected immediately. "And I want a shower."

"No breakfast, we'll get something on the way," he said. "You have five minutes to shower and then we must be off." He sniffed. "Do a thorough job, as I believe you still have bits of brain in your hair. It would seem a bit rash to go meet the police that way."

Lovely.

"Honestly, John, hurry _up!_" I snatched up my towel from the back of the door and fled, relieved that he at last hadn't offered any hints about joining me.

We would be fine as long as he was on a case, I thought as I scrubbed my head, twice, with his shampoo. He wouldn't want to deal with any – messy human stuff then. He was like a machine, completely fixated on the clues in front of him, and this whole _love _error would barely even register with him.

Which was convenient, because it seemed like we were always on a case. I don't know if there was a crime spree on or what, but it seemed like we'd barely had a break in the past six months, ever since the explosion at the pool. I thought it was all leading up to our last showdown with Moriarty, but here we were plunging in to the breach again, and he'd been dead less than twelve hours.

"Quickly, John!" he called, through the door. "You should know by now that crime doesn't wait."

* * *

><p>I have to say that the crime scene was – atrocious. Probably one of the worst I'd ever been to, and by then I had been to quite a few, so that's really saying something.<p>

The whole room was spattered with something that looked like blood, although apparently the techs were saying it actually wasn't … it was corn syrup, dyed red like in the movies. Someone had also used it to trace various shapes and symbols over the wood floors and the baseboards, all of which were being carefully photographed and documented when we arrived.

The body was headless, neatly separated at the spine by what the coroner was calling a "dull, short blade." It was hanging from the ceiling like a side of beef, supported by a strapping of duct tape that passed under the arms and was affixed to the chandelier.

What remained of the torso had obviously been frozen, and the blue and gelid skin had the texture of cement. It was dripping, faintly, from the toes.

I could see that it had been a slight man, with delicate limbs almost like a child's. He was nude except for the shorts, which were plain white cotton, stiff now from the cold. "Remarkable," murmured Sherlock politely.

That was _one _word for it.

The whole thing looked completely incongruous in the townhouse, which was extremely well-appointed and tasteful other than the grisly murder victim hanging in the middle of it. Lestrade had said the owners were in Malta for the season, and that the lady who came in to water the plants had found everything the way it was.

"Are we thinking this is some kind of ritual thing?" I asked, looking doubtfully at what appeared to be a rather crude sketch of the ol' twig-and-berries, drawn in fake blood on the wall. Around it was a widening spiral of what as far as I could see was just nonsense, squiggles and hatch-marks.

"I have no bloody clue," said Lestrade. "Something sick, that's for damn sure."

"The way they froze him, it'll be almost impossible to fix a time of death," Anderson complained, coming up from behind us unexpectedly. "The coroner said it wasn't done all at once – he froze and thawed a couple times, and without knowing the temperatures or the times, I don't see how we could work backwards. He's probably been dead for months, but there's barely any sign of decomp."

One of the techs cut the tape, and the body fell heavily with a dull _thunk. _We all bent around it, examining the stiff, frozen trunk.

"Not much to go on," muttered Lestrade, peering at the gaping hole where the head had formerly connected; luckily it was frozen over so the gore was minimal. I wouldn't want to be there when it thawed. "Poor blighter."

"It's a mess, is what it is," said Anderson, poking at a rigid arm. "Every year it seems like they get weirder." He shook the limb to check rigor; I was looking at the frozen fingernails, one of which had been painted with the red syrup, and it was almost like the hand waved.

"Rather clever, really," said Sherlock neutrally.

I had a sudden, horrific thought. It was difficult to control my reaction, but I forced myself not to look at him: instead I kept up my inspection of the hands, the tiny, well-kept hands which appeared to be quite soft and unlined.

"Our first thought is that it might be kids," Lestrade was saying, "there must have been more than one of them, to get him up there, and the whole thing is a little – juvenile, right?"

He turned to call over Donovan and I took the chance of looking at Sherlock's expression; it looked politely neutral, intent upon the scene, but I could swear I saw the faintest twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Oh God.

It was Moriarty, I was sure of it; these blue, lifeless fingers were the same that I had last seen casually aiming a Steyr AUG in my direction.

It was strange how I felt suddenly – sick. I had hated Moriarty, as much as I hated any man on earth; I wouldn't be forgetting his little trick with the bomb vests anytime soon, the horror he had inflicted on his innocent victims. But to see a person you've known, a person you've seen moving around and talking (in that incredibly annoying, breathily high-pitched voice) – so see them reduced to – meat, and strung up like this, on display …

"John, would you care for coffee?" asked Sherlock abruptly. "I did promise you breakfast, and I'm afraid I've been terribly remiss."

"Had your look, then?" Lestrade asked, disinterestedly. "Got any ideas for us?"

"You're dealing with an incredibly depraved group of individuals," said Sherlock dryly, "but I think you already know that. Beyond the basics I think we'd best wait for the body to ... defrost, and see what comes of it then. The scene has nothing of interest to say."

_Because he wasn't killed here,_ I wanted to add. Because he was killed at a warehouse on the other side of town, with my gun, by Sherlock Holmes.

"Right, then," said Lestrade, "well, just let me know. Did you want to talk to the woman who found him?"

"John is feeling unwell," said Sherlock impatiently, "I must take him away at once."

Lestrade raised a single inquiring eyebrow. "That is considerate of you," he said. He tipped his head at me as though to say, _I suppose this is your positive influence, _apparently having no idea that Sherlock's real source of concern was my possibly giving away our involvement in the murder we were investigating.

"Oh, yes. John is in love with me," announced Sherlock proudly.

You could have heard a pin drop in the crowded room. The only sound was the body faintly cracking as it quietly thawed.

"Well, isn't that nice, then," managed Lestrade politely, after a moment. He looked absolutely gob-smacked.

I could relate.

"Yes. I suppose now we are – boyfriends?" Sherlock looked at me inquiringly. "Are we boyfriends, John?"

I looked out at the sea of inquiring faces. I looked at Sherlock, who was watching me quite intently, his head tipped slightly to the side in that peculiar way of his. I felt like even the corpse was holding its breath to listen.

I've always been someone who finishes what I start. And it's not like I had anything to lose at this point. _What the Hell,_ I thought. "Yes," I said. "I mean, if you'll have me."

Sherlock looked satisfied with this. He tugged me proprietarily against his side, winding one long arm over my shoulders like an octopus. It felt very ... strange. "Excellent," he said. "We've got to go, John, come along. Lestrade, I'll give you my thoughts after I investigate the possibilities for deep freezing human tissue."

Great. More experiments for the flat, no doubt.

We kept silent as we walked down the stairs, both of us trying not to hurry, him doing a better job than me. I wanted to be away from the scene, out of earshot, as soon as possible. I forced myself to match his pace, hoping I looked quite casual.

"What the hell were you _thinking_?" I said, as soon as I felt far enough away. "Why did you leave it someplace so _conspicuous, _and what did you have _done to it? _Are you just trying to taunt the police, or what?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, looking surprised. "I just felt this was the most reasonable course of action."

_Most reasonable course_ – "And how did you arrive at that, then?" I asked, astonished. "What about cutting his head off and leaving him strung up in a London townhouse struck you as being particularly reasonable?"

"Coffee, John," said Sherlock, steering us towards a cart on the corner. "I'll tell you in a minute." He purchased, with his own cash (!), two coffees and a selection of pastries, then led the way to a bus stop with a bench. When we sat down I realized he'd picked it because it was so close to the road that nobody could hear us over the traffic.

"If we merely attempted to pretend no murder had occurred, or that we knew nothing about it, we would always be burdened by the knowledge that the truth might someday surface," Sherlock explained calmly, when we were both seated. "That is a common mistake made by the criminal class – they hope that nobody will _notice_ the crime. However, even with the appalling investigative practices of our local police, it is quite likely that the murder of a man will someday come to light. Better to meet the thing head on, it seemed to me, and have it resolved. We need merely to ensure that we are never considered as suspects, as I have taken some pains to achieve."

"The head," I said, "tell me why you took his head."

"Ah well." He was inspecting his cardboard cup. "We had to cut that off because it still had a bullet from your gun in it. Without a head, it will be impossible for the police to determine cause of death. Not quite impossible for me, perhaps, but for them – " he waved his hand dismissively. "Think of the possibilities!" he stirred his coffee, thoughtfully. "He could have been suffocated. Stabbed in the neck. Strangled manually, garroted, or hung. A direct blow to the base of the jaw could have severed the spine through disruption to the vertebrae. Blunt force trauma could have caused fatal injury to the brain. Perhaps a cerebrovascular event such as a stroke or an aneurism. Something could have been inserted through the ear or the nostril into the brainpan –

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," I said hastily. "All very good ideas for next time. What – " I lowered my voice further. "What happened to it - the head?"

"I don't exactly know myself!" said Sherlock brightly. "I gave my irregular some leeway on that one, although I provided the options. A gravel compounder, for example. Or a large scale industrial meat grinder. Or a trash compactor, car crusher, or large-volume wood chipper. A single dislocated head is the easiest thing in the world to transport from place to place, you know. It could really be any sort of place."

I groaned, softly. I hoped to God it wasn't the meat grinder.

"The point, you may be assured, is that nobody will be reconstructing that head any time soon. Even if they could identify some fragment of what was left as actual human tissue, they would certainly never be able to connect it to your service pistol. Which has been melted down beyond recognition, along with the bullet, shell casing, and the tools used on the body."

"Great," I said, faintly. "Just – great."

"How about a scone," suggested Sherlock courteously. "I believe there may be a blackcurrent one left."

I took a scone. What the Hell.

"The point is," he continued, "with no evidence that he was shot, they will never connect the crime to the murder weapon, even if they could recover it, which they won't. And thanks to the freezing process I initiated, they have no timeline with which to establish precise time of death. There will never be a missing persons report for James Moriarty, as I doubt anybody is missing him. With no way of identifying the body, the police will have a difficult time determining any relevant motive, and I have made sure that the manner in which the murder was discovered does not suggest anything relating to the actual circumstances surrounding it. Thus the elaborate staging ... the police are certainly not likely to connect _me _with a seemingly irrational, inelegant crime. And finally, the police have not identified and are unlikely to identify the actual crime scene, which was certainly no place near the home where the body was found."

Oh yeah, he hadn't been thinking about _this _at all.

"You came up with all that in one night?" I wondered. We hadn't even known we were meeting Moriarty that night, until the last possible second. "Through text-message?"

"Of course not, John!" Sherlock looked scandalized. "I would never entrust the transmission of such sensitive information through such an untrustworthy medium. This was based on a standing plan I had worked out with a few of my more faithful irregulars, through private in-person conversation. I merely had to text a pre-arranged series of code words to the various players. Quite unremarkable should they ever be traced, I assure you."

"You – had this all planned out in advance?"

"Well, it is a natural consequence of my occupation that you do occasionally stumble across ideas for a convenient murder. Up until now, no victim has ever presented themselves …" Perhaps seeing my horrified expression, he hurried to explain; "They were merely contingency plans, John! Just something I had worked out in the odd hours."

"Plans," I repeated dazedly. "You had your choice of options, then?"

"Baking was a very strong contender," Sherlock assented. "Also either burial or some other form of entombment together with certain rather caustic substances, if we'd had enough time. I thought it would be better to get it done in one night, however, so we went with the freezing plan. It is rather a clever one." He sniffed, modestly. "Liquid nitrogen, of course."

"Yes, it's really got that elegant flare," I said flatly.

"Have a croissant, John," said Sherlock. "The true trick of course is to ensure that some elements of the crime are completely random – for example, the block where the body was recovered. There is no way to connect it to us because there literally is no connection to us or to the crime – it was chosen by one of the irregulars merely by consulting the seventh item on the seventeenth page of the phone book."

I shook my head, and a sudden thought came to me; "what about fingerprints?" I asked. "Your plan depends on them not identifying him, but you left the hands."

"Yes, we did," Sherlock agreed; "it would have looked a little suspicious if we had not … a little too deliberate. But I think you'll find that Jim himself took care of that detail for us."

"What?"

"His fingerprints were never on file," Sherlock explained somewhat condescendingly. "You will remember that he was always very careful not to leave any. So they will lead the police nowhere, but much good may it do them. Even after the incident at the pool," (this is how Sherlock always referred to that time I almost got blown up), "not a single print was ever recovered. Jim from IT left no marks in the lab or at Molly's house. He was really quite meticulous about it, really. It's rather impressive, when you think about it."

"Molly – " I said, suddenly. "Don't you think she might recognize the body parts of her own boyfriend, if they suddenly appeared on her table?"

"I shouldn't think so," said Sherlock coolly. "I have reason to believe they were never particularly intimate. I doubt he would have let her touch him. He – would never been able to endure that sort of thing."

This rather confirmed my opinions about Sherlock's ability to _endure that sort of thing_, which came as something of a relief as I had been trying very hard not to think about that all day. I didn't get the chance to pursue it, though, because Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket at that moment and checked a text. "Lestrade again," he noted. "It seems that they're headed to the morgue. Shall we go?"

I stood up automatically. "How do you plan to handle the investigation," I asked. "Just pretend you can't solve it?"

"Can't solve it?" Sherlock looked honestly surprised. "Of course I can solve it. Honestly, John, if I couldn't solve the case Lestrade would know something was up for certain."

"You just spent the entire breakfast hour explaining why the case couldn't be solved!"

"Well, it can't be solved _correctly_, I shouldn't think – not unless I devoted considerable time and attention to the problem," he trailed off, thoughtfully, then shook himself and continued. "That should in no way prevent the crime from being solved. A grisly unsolved murder floating about, possibly attracting all manner of attention –" he shuddered. "No, we will present a very satisfactory conclusion to the case so that it could not possibly be revisited in the future."

"How on earth do you plan to do that, then?" I asked, amazed. "I'm not about to help you set up some innocent bloke, if that's what you're thinking!"

"Wait and see, John," exclaimed Sherlock gleefully, waving for a cab. "Just wait and see!"

.


	4. Chapter 4

**.**

**Chapter Four**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

Sherlock barged into the loading dock of the morgue with complete confidence, apparently untroubled that _we_ were the murderers everyone was looking for.

"Ah, Lestrade, you're already here, capital! I did wonder if I might have access to the corpse for another moment – just to indulge my curiosity on the subject of frozen hair follicles? I have rather an interesting hypothesis on the subject with some very useful implications!"

Coming from anybody else this might have sounded suspicious, but it was completely natural from Sherlock, so Lestrade didn't blink an eye.

"It's in on the table, defrosting," he said, "if it's alright with Molly you can go in, but give her a minute to set up."

Sherlock positively rubbed his hands with glee – something I'd read about in books but didn't think anybody actually _did_. I guessed I'd add that to the list along with _having arch-enemies_.

I looked up to find Lestrade watching us intently, his eyes flicking between Sherlock and me. I swallowed; this was probably going to be awkward as hell. "So," he began, casually, "when did all this happen with the two of you? Could've sworn last time I saw you, you weren't … uh, all _this_," he waved a hand to indicate the general state of our relationship.

"Yes, it's very recent," said Sherlock importantly. "We haven't yet advanced the physical side of our connection, but that will happen shortly."

Lestrade looked like he really regretted asking, and I was completely on board with that. What exactly did Sherlock mean by _the physical side of our connection_? I was probably misunderstanding what he meant by that. It was probably, like, code for something, right?

Fortunately, before anybody could ask for additional clarification, Molly emerged through the swinging doors with the empty body bag. She waved hesitantly at us and Sherlock leapt up to accompany her back in the direction of the lab. "I had the most interesting insight this afternoon!" I heard him say as they headed off, him easily matching her brisk pace. "I wondered if I might just have the quickest peek at that frozen corpse you just got in?"

I didn't hear her reply – no doubt it was affirmative, I hadn't heard Molly say no to Sherlock yet (it was something of a special skill, and was only just coming to me with long practice). He scurried after her disclaiming loudly and with every appearance of great enthusiasm on the topic of frozen hair follicles, and much luck to him with that.

Unluckily that left me alone with Lestrade, two largely uncommunicative people with a giant gaping secret between us. It was intensely awkward. We stood for a long time without speaking, me rubbing the back of my neck which was suddenly itchy and red.

Obviously Lestrade couldn't possibly know what was going on with Sherlock and me - he probably thought Sherlock had stumbled into some false conclusion, and that I was just too bloody nice to correct him - but he had caught the thread of it. He knew _something_ was up.

He reached into a pocket. "Fancy a fag?"

I flinched.

Thankfully he took no notice, busy pulling out a pack of cigarettes and getting one lit. Now I know I'm a doctor and should know better - but I'm also a soldier, so when he offered me one, I took it and bent over his cupped hand until the flame caught.

"I didn't know you smoked," I said.

"Hard habit to keep up in London." I smiled and wondered who had said it first, him or Sherlock.

I inhaled, slowly, then took the plunge. "Err, about the whole, you know … "

"Might be better not to talk," advised Lestrade, but he didn't sound angry. I glanced over at him; he was studying the smoke rising from the end of his cigarette.

He was probably right, but there were suddenly a lot of things I wanted to say. Apologize, for one, to probably the only person besides myself who seemed at all fond of Sherlock, for what I was doing to him; ask him what he thought I should do. Unburden myself of all the guilt and the strain I was feeling. But I said nothing, and he said nothing, and both of us waited for Sherlock to come back.

"He seems – better, with you around," said Lestrade, finally. "So that's something."

I couldn't answer, watching the flame coming ever closer to my fingertips.

"You know, my brother trains racehorses," said Lestrade, completely apropos of nothing.

I blinked. "Oh yeah, then?"

"Yeah, for the Brighton Racecourse, mostly."

"That's nice," I said, "horses." I had no idea why he was telling me this.

"Deucedly high-strung animals." Lestrade shuddered. "Have you ever been around one? Every little thing sets them off. Dangerous, really."

"Oh, um, no, I wouldn't know."

"God, yeah. Completely unmanageable." He took a long drag and exhaled slowly. "They're born for one thing, and that's speed. _Christ, _they can run. It's a thing to see, that's for damn sure."

I nodded.

"So what they do is, they keep another horse in the stable. One with a nice steady temperament. And whenever they need the thoroughbred, they bring them both along together."

I had a pretty clear sense of where this was going.

"And it keeps the thoroughbred calm, easier to manage, much safer for everyone." He snuffed out his stub against the bricks. "They call it a lead pony."

"So help me, Lestrade, if you're working up to a short joke ... "

He snorted. "All I'm trying to say is – Sherlock's alright, as far as the performance goes, but he needs you. He knows it, I know it, and I'm pretty sure you know it too."

"So I'm just a plodding old mare, eh?" I said, flatly. "And Sherlock is a fidgety racehorse. Sounds like an insult to both of us, in my book." And how Sherlock would hate the use of a metaphor, anyway! He hated any kind of figurative language … too fanciful for him, probably. I smiled, faintly.

"Look at it this way," said Lestrade. "Your website gets twice the traffic his does, but you barely ever talk about yourself. On your _own blog_. It's all, Sherlock deduced this, Sherlock said that, Sherlock doesn't like marmalade."

"He doesn't like marmalade," I said. "Don't you think that's a bit odd?" I mean honestly, who doesn't like marmalade?

"But the point is, it's all about him," said Lestrade patiently.

"Yeah, well." I scuffed my feet a little, with the half-burned cigarette hanging from my fingers. I don't think I'd taken more than the one puff of it. "S'just, he's all – you know. And then there's, well, _me –"_

"John?" Sherlock's voice came from the hallway behind us.

"I'm just saying," said Lestrade phlegmatically. "It works in horses."

"John?" Sherlocklock came around the corner to find us. "Oh, John _there _you are! Honestly, are you two just going to stand around here all day? No wonder there's such a high rate of unsolved cases!"

I saw Lestrade grit his teeth. "Good luck with that, mate," he muttered, looking at the door.

Sherlock came in close, sniffing at the obvious smell of smoke with evident pleasure. Hastily I stubbed out the cigarette before he could take it from me – the last thing he needed was exposure to more poisons.

"Solved it, have you?" inquired the inspector.

"Hair follicles don't work to pinpoint time of death," said Sherlock mournfully. "Oh well, worth a try. You smell _delightful_, John."

Of course Sherlock would be the one person to encourage me to smoke _more_. And of course he'd find the scent of toxic chemicals enticing.

"I'd better leave you lovebirds alone," said Lestrade, with a hint of a smile. "Wouldn't want to intrude."

"Yes, perhaps you had better," Sherlock agreed, still sniffing at my collar. "Come along, John, we ought to be heading back to the flat."

He took my shirt sleeve between his fingers and towed me through the alley behind the police station, towards the Underground stop. I didn't put up much protest, well used to his high-handedness by now.

But as we came out onto the street I happened to glance up, just in time to catch the glint of light from the rooftop across the way.

By that time I'd been home from Afghanistan for almost a year, but some things you never forget - the smell of motor oil hot from the sun, the way the sand burns your eyes with the wind, and the vulnerability of coming out of a dark alley into the sunlight. It's a great time for someone to kill you from a distance.

I felt my whole body tighten up, like a fist.

In that moment, it as if I could see everything clearly, from outside myself; the exact sightline of the sniper on the roof, the way the shot was lined up, the path that the bullet would take to Sherlock's head.

Time seemed to have slowed down to half the normal speed, giving me plenty of time to plow into Sherlock from behind, knocking him roughly to the ground, safely behind the cover of a parked car. We both fell, clumsily, my full weight crushing him into the cement, me clutching his curly head against my chest.

Over his indignant noise of protest, I could hear the dull _thwap _of the bullet sinking into the brick behind us.

He tried to roll out from under me but I gripped him tighter, afraid he would pop his head out into the sniper's line of fire. I was sure he was still out there, whoever he was, waiting for another shot; it's what I would do.

My first thought was, _who could be doing this?_ Moriarty was dead. Not the kind of never-saw-the-body dead that you get in detective shows; this was the _I've seen the inside of your skull wetly glinting like mother-of-pearl_ kind of dead.

My second thought was that we were supposed to be in the middle of London, not some Afghani border town. There were people in business suits walking about, pricey cars driving down the road - not one of them aware of the bullet embedded in the side of the building behind us. It was _surreal_.

Sherlock had finally wrenched himself out of my grip and was thankfully keeping crouched, turning round to face me. He was saying something – I could see his mouth moving – but I couldn't make out the words. I realized that my free hand was clamped to my shoulder – last time this had happened, I had barely registered the searing pain there in time to realize I had been shot.

"John!" Suddenly I could hear again; sound came roaring back in a rush. His voice was tense, abrupt. He ripped my hand away from my shoulder and we both stared stupidly at the unblemished material of my shirt. It was fine, of course it was fine, I hadn't been hit. Not this time.

"Are you alright?" I managed. "Sherlock?"

He huffed; I watched him form the shape of it on his lips, felt the air puffing past me. "Am _I _- honestly, John." I was still trembling; I shook my head to clear it. "Yes, I'm fine."

Things were still moving at the wrong pace, I realized; too slow, we were still too slow. "Sorry," I muttered, "I think I'm a little off my head."

Sherlock's expression changed to something I couldn't identify, or was too jumbled-up to recognize. My heart was still pounding, I couldn't shake the feeling that I ought to be checking the supply lines – we'd be damned with out the supply lines – I had to make sure we didn't lose contact with the main base, it was the first thing they'd taught us. We'd die out here, our skeletons bleaching in the hot sun, if I didn't check the lines straight off.

"John!"

Sherlock was shaking me roughly. "Come on, he's bound to be gone by now. Look, there's people about."

I looked, still dazed and dim-witted. Sherlock was right; people were walking past us on the street, casting the occasional odd glance at the two men huddled in the shade of a parked car.

London, we were in London, right. I was home.

"John. Come along, now." Sherlock pulled me to my feet and I went, although I didn't like stepping out from the safety of the car. It was possible he will still up there, on the roof, ready to fire again. But Sherlock was right, there was a crowd, he'd have a bad shot in a crowd, and it'd be noticeable.

We lost ourselves in the throng of people and I thought briefly how _wrong _it was, using them as a screen, we could be putting them in danger, but Sherlock's grip was relentless on my arm, and I couldn't seem to pull away, so I followed him down to the tube and he didn't let go, even when we got to the train, he didn't let go, just kept on with his fingers scalding hot fingers against my icy skin.

We rode together in silence the whole way home, and still he didn't release his grip.

* * *

><p>After the ride, and then the walk back to the flat, which Sherlock seemed determined to take as slowly as humanly possible (<em>and God didn't he know that we were exposed, that there could be more of them, didn't he know we should hurry?)<em>, and a long time spent lingering under the sheltered awning of the corner shop while Sherlock made a series of phone calls, and made purchases that did not strike me as particularly necessary, I had started to regather my wits, such as they were.

The relative quiet of our own street, not to mention the cool breeze that came over the hill, was infinitely steadying.

Sherlock hadn't spoken again the whole time, his lips pinched tight, and I was sure I'd bruise where his fingers dug into my upper arm. It was a little too easy for him to drag me around, having the advantage of height, because my only option was to dig in my heels like a donkey if I wanted to resist.

"Up, up the stairs," he ordered, when we finally reached the flat. I was glad to precede him but he crowded too close behind me and I shrugged away from his hot breath at my back.

"Sit," he ordered as soon as we got in, waving to the settee. Perhaps he heard the tone of command – so much like you'd use with a dog – in his own voice, because in the next minute he added more smoothly, "Go on, John, sit down, and I'll fetch a glass of water."

I wasn't sure I should drink anything he brought me - his understanding of sanitation was rudimentary at best - but I sat willingly, resting my head in my hands. I could feel the blood pumping through my temples under my fingertips. We were fine, I reminded myself. We were both fine.

I was definitely feeling better, almost back to normal, but there was still something inside my chest that was frozen solid. What I really wanted to do was take a hot shower, wash away all the clammy sweat, and then maybe have a nap.

Sherlock came back with a glass that looked a little dirty, but I accepted it anyway and drank the water down. It tasted faintly of stale tea; he must have got it from the sideboard. Then he sat next to me on the couch (already this was odd: he usually preferred the chair across from me), and I discovered an unusual appreciation for his body heat, which I had never noticed before. His knees were touching mine and I wanted to lean further into him, steal more of his warmth. I resisted, manfully.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, cautiously, as though I might snap at any second.

"Yes, fine," I said. Even the faint brush of his shirt, which was soft cotton, felt fabulous, almost super-heated, against my side.

"Thanks, for back there," he said, shortly.

I nodded. "No problem." I found I was shivering, faintly.

He inched a little closer and closed my eyes when his shoulder pressed against mine. I gave a soft, involuntary grunt of satisfaction.

"John, I was thinking this might be a good time to advance to the next stage in our relationship."

My eyes flicked open and I found his face very close to my own. "Oh yeah, then?" I managed. "What, umm, what did you have in mind?"

"I thought perhaps we could try an embrace. A – hug." The word seemed unfamiliar on his tongue.

How did he know what I had been imagining? Were my desires really so evident from my face? To him, perhaps they were. "We could try that, sure," I said.

"Right, then. Erm, how would you say is the best way to proceed?" he was looking at me with polite inquiry, as though requesting my medical opinion on a case. _Would you say she's been dead for more than a week, John?_

"Would it be alright if I just sort of – " I waved an arm uselessly to indicate what I was thinking. Sherlock raised one eyebrow but made no answer, which was Sherlockian agreement. "Alright. Good. Okay, then." Tentatively, I reached out with my free hand. For what seemed like a long time it sort of hung there ominously, and then I slowly dropped it down to Sherlock's thin shoulder.

"Alright," I said again. "Good. Good progress." I felt ridiculously awkward but mercifully, Sherlock kept quiet.

Finally I gathered my nerve and reeled him in against me. He went unresistingly but there was no softening in his body that indicated that this was a willing act. It was like cuddling a mannequin.

We were sideways on the couch, so I turned a little, drawing him closer, flinching a little at the heat of it, which felt strange at first. But good.

He was thin, and there was no place for my hands to find purchase; it felt like I was making direct contact with his skeleton. One of my arms was around his knobby back, and I let the other slide down to his waist. This wasn't how two blokes typically hugged, when we deigned to do so at all; that tended to feature more back-slapping. But it didn't feel bad, quite the contrary.

His own hands were still at his side.

"Here," I said, turning his cheek against my shoulder, bending him down uncomfortably to fit. I moved my grip from his spine to the nape of his neck, holding him there even though he wasn't attempting to pull away. He didn't relax against me, but he let me do what I wanted, even though he was probably disgusted by the smell of my skin, or my breath, or the temperature of us pushed together, or something I couldn't even detect - he was still letting me.

I could feel the cold place inside me thawing out.

"When we're quite finished with - this," said Sherlock, his voice muffled by my shirt, "I have a few ideas about the person who's trying to kill us."

.


	5. Chapter 5

**.**

**Chapter Five**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

I let him go and he sat back at once, rearranging his disordered clothing with all the fussiness of a housecat. Uncurling to his full height left him looming over me again.

"Good hug," he said, with no visible emotion.

"Um," I said. "That was not a hug. We were not hugging."

He looked disturbed. "What do you mean?"

"Okay, maybe you could argue that _I_ hugged _you. _You did nothing. There was no return hug, ergo, no hugging." I wasn't sure why I was even going on about this; it's not like I was desperate to have a snuggle with the beanpole. And I really wanted to hear about the shooter. But some things simply demand to be said.

"Light physical contact is supposed to be calming for people with post-traumatic stress disorder," said Sherlock blandly. "I didn't think it would be very helpful if I was clutching at you."

It felt like he'd slapped me. "Post-traumatic … so that's what this was about, then? Just trying to help out poor, pathetic John?" I got up off the couch and backed away. I knew I was probably being a little unfair – it was actually kind of unusual for Sherlock to register emotional distress, never mind try to do anything about it (and when exactly had he been doing research on this topic?). But obviously it was a bit of a sore subject for me, and I still had Lestrade's voice in my head, going on about how I was going to be this nice, stabilizing influence on Sherlock.

"Interesting," he said, watching me intently. "Although you were willing to see a therapist and even consume medication prescribed for your mental disorder, you are still unwilling to acknowledge that it exists."

_Mental disorder_. I'd show him a ruddy mental disorder when I went _sodding beserk and murdered him._

It's not like I thought he didn't know about the pills – of course he did, he knew about everything – but I had been assuming that, like proper men, we were never going to talk about it. I had only taken them for a few months, just in the beginning, mostly after that whole mess with poor Martin (and I wasn't thinking about it, wasn't thinking about it, _wasn't thinking about it)._

I didn't identify as one of those soldiers you hear about on the news, bashing their wives' heads in or shooting up a recruiting station. I thought I was doing pretty well, all things considered; I had a job (until last week, anyway) a place to live (that I shared with a madman) and a variety of hobbies and interests (most of which involved a high degree of personal risk). I had even been dating, before that got rather spectacularly – derailed.

Actually, thinking about it now, maybe I wasn't doing that well at all.

I knew I shouldn't have any hang-ups about seeking treatment … I'm a doctor, for Chrissake. Hadn't I taken painkillers and physical therapy for my shoulder? It shouldn't be any different with my brain, which had also been exposed to trauma.

But I certainly didn't need Sherlock rubbing my nose in it.

"Right," I said, with finality. "So, who do you reckon is out to kill us, then?" I needed to wrap this up and get out of the flat for a while – maybe drop by work, where I'd most likely be sacked before I made it to my desk. But really any non-Sherlock-related errand would do; I just didn't want to be in the same room as him, at the moment.

Sherlock looked suspicious – he definitely noticed I was changing the subject – but after all, he didn't particularly _care _if my precious little feelings were hurt. That kind of thing was – how did he always put it? _Not his area. _

"Moriarty had an extensive network of associates," he said finally, with a frown still lingering over his expression. "One of them has evidently decided to take action against us. There should be a limited number with both capacity and motive to hire a sniper; it will be a simple process of elimination."

"And not get eliminated ourselves, in the meantime," I nodded. "Sounds like a plan." I looked about for my coat.

"John," said Sherlock, picking up his violin and twiddling with the tuning pegs, "perhaps I have a little been indelicate –"

"Actually, I should probably be off," I said, quickly. "Back in time for dinner, yeah?"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing. "Where are you going?"

"Work," I said, as I fished my shoes out from under the couch. "Or where I used to work, anyway."

"Call them. They can sack you over the phone just as easily."

"Yes, well, there are some things that it's nicer to do in person. You know, like breaking up with someone."

He examined me, eyes narrowed. "That's absurd."

"No-o, it's considered good form, actually."

"It is always preferable to convey bad news at a distance, so that both parties have optimum time to consider all the information before they react. In person, it's too easy for someone to get emotional."

"Right, well, I don't think I'm going to start crying," I said, patiently. "I think it'll be alright." I reached for my jacket on the hook.

"John, wait!"

I turned back, mustering patience. "Yes?"

He was still watching me, with an expression somewhere between calculating and uncertain. "I hurt my side," he said.

"What?"

"My side. When we ducked from that sniper, my side was injured against the cement. It feels like it might be serious." That was the same tone of voice he used when he said, _it could be dangerous, _which he would now say about taking out the garbage if it meant he didn't have to do it.

I studied his expression, which was flat and unrevealing; he didn't look like somebody in possession of a critical injury to me.

"You're just noticing this now?" I asked suspiciously.

"It didn't hurt before. It must have been the adrenaline. But now it does. Ouch." I rolled my eyes; considering how well he could act, it was a little insulting that he didn't think he had to try any harder for me.

I was pretty sure he was having me on for his own nefarious purposes. But, it was quite rare for Sherlock to ask me for medical help, and God knows I'd seen him overlook some fairly serious injuries when he was caught up on a case (I'd once witnessed him use his fractured wrist to smash a crook's nose in, and when I'd tried to examine the injury afterwards he'd snarled at me like a dog).

No matter how irritated at him I was, I couldn't risk ignoring him the one time he actually admitted to being hurt.

"Alright," I said, "sit sideways on the couch, and let's take a look."

"Not here in the middle of the living room." He looked scandalized. "Help me up, we'll go to my room."

He was pushing his luck, but I came unwillingly over to hook my arms under his armpits, hauling him to his feet. He did seem to be moving stiffly – perhaps I hadn't noticed before? I'd been distracted. I took his arm over my shoulders and kept a good grip on him as we went to the room, as though he might collapse any minute, even though we'd walked more than a mile from the train and he'd been perfectly fine.

"Here," I said, "sit on the bed. Where does it hurt?"

"It's my whole side, now," he said, his eyes still fixed on my face. "It's gone numb."

"Take your shirt off," I said, "let me have a look."

"I can't," he said, not trying. "My shoulder has stiffened up."

"You moved it a minute ago," I pointed out.

"It's been spreading," he countered. "I suppose I hit the ground harder than I thought."

I had smashed into him pretty hard. And I was deceptively heavy, given my size - mostly old muscle gone to flab around the edges. It wasn't _that_ surprising he'd be feeling the effects.

Grumbling, I squatted down in front of him on the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt, which was one of his nice silk ones that probably cost more than the rest of my wardrobe.

His eyes were pinned on mine, unblinking as I pulled the sides of his shirt open to have a look. "Nothing wrong with your ribs, except that they stick out a bit too much," I said. I helped him shrug the shirt off his shoulders, and he grimaced a little at the motion … maybe the joint really was hurt? I had suspected him of faking, but his expression did look genuinely pained.

Was I throwing a sulk about something stupid he'd said, while he was sitting there suffering?

"Here, Sherlock," I said, deliberately gentling my tone as much as possible, as I pulled the sleeves down his arms and bent over the shoulder he was favoring. Clearly it wasn't dislocated, and I didn't see too much sign of bruising, but he flinched when I touched it.

Carefully I felt around the muscle, manipulating the joint so I could see it move. The bone felt sound, and I didn't feel any contusions.

"Pants," I said, absently, moving my hand down his side to check for swelling.

He hesitated.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I'm a doctor," I reminded him, patiently. "I promise I'm not having any prurient thoughts here. You should have told me sooner if you were hurting, it could be something really bad." Sherlock lifted himself an inch or so off the edge of the bed, his fingers working at the buckle of his belt. It seemed difficult for him to support his weight with his legs, so I knocked his hands away and pushed him gently back. "Here," I said, "I'll do it, stop."

He let me, watching with that same unblinking cat's gaze. I eased his trousers down over his narrow hips and immediately saw the problem; it was a large, spreading bruise that covered the crest of the ilium. A type of injury I was familiar with, from the surgery.

"Hip pointer," I said, gently sliding his boxers out of the way without pulling them all the way down. He tensed, minutely, but didn't object. "Get them from a rugby tackle, usually. Sorry about that, mate." I did feel a little guilty, since I was the one who had crushed him into the ground.

"It's fine," he muttered. "Better that than a bullet to the brain."

"Could have fractured the iliac crest," I fussed, gently feeling the ledge of it running under Sherlock's skin. He was holding still for me like a model patient, although I knew I must be hurting him. "The pain comes from the cluneal nerve, it runs right along the edge of the bone here." I was trying to distract him as I felt around his abductors, which were somewhat swollen and hot. "We'll try anti-inflammatories and the good painkillers, okay?"

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"I'm just going to check the blood flow," I warned him, slipping my fingers into the curve between his hip and his pubis to feel for the femoral pulse. I felt him tense. "Almost done," I soothed. The beat was strong and steady under my fingers, and I moved down to the popliteal pulse behind the knee, sliding his trousers off his ankles and onto the floor. "Bend your leg," I murmured, supporting the joint with both hands while I gently palpated the artery. It all felt fine. "Good." I let him go.

"We should have it x-rayed, just to be sure," I said. "I can't feel damage to the bone but I wouldn't expect to, if it's a fracture."

"Would you do anything differently if it was fractured?"

"No, it would just take longer to heal. The treatment is the same: rest."

"Then no x-rays." He sounded sleepy, now.

"We'll do ice tonight, and see how it looks in the morning, maybe we can try a heat pack then. Don't move your legs sideways, that's the muscles that are bruised, okay? Up and down should be alright."

He nodded, his eyes heavy-lidded and languorous. Quickly I felt for the pulses of the foot, at the dorsum and medial malleolus. He kept still under my hands, letting me work, saying nothing. I wasn't sure what to say about such unusual passivity from Sherlock, a man who rarely deferred to the experience of others. He didn't even try to pull up his own boxers when I was done, so I did it for him, sliding them carefully around his hips. He hissed, faintly.

"Sorry," I said. "Let's get you into bed, and we'll start you on the icing, eh? And I have a heat pack for later."

His bed was a twin, covered over with dirty clothes, and I cleared them off to the desk and then helped him settle back against the headboard.

"Tired," he muttered.

"Hold on," I said, "I need to get your meds, and the ice."

"Stay away from the windows," he advised. That was … an alarming thing to hear.

I came back with painkillers and some leftover anti-inflammatories. He was still lying on top of the sheets, eyes closed, in the dim room.

I hadn't really looked at him while I was concentrating on my examination, but it was impossible not to get a sense of him now. He was all limbs, white as a fish belly, knobby at the knees and ankles. The hair on his legs and chest was sparse and black, like it wasn't finished filling in, and there was barely an inch of extra flesh anywhere on his body. For all he was surprisingly graceful in motion, laid out flat before me he looked ungainly, like a twelve-year old that had grown too fast and hadn't caught up to it.

I shook myself. "Here now, sit up a little," I said. "Two of these – " I handed him the pills, and he cupped his hand to accept them – "and one of these big ones." He dry-swallowed them all, sipping unenthusiastically at the milk I had brought to coat his stomach.

I handed him the ice pack I had retrieved from the med kit, watching him crush the inner bag and sigh with relief at the instant coolness.

"Good."

"Do you want anything else?"

"My phone," he said. "If I'm going to be stuck here, I want it."

I fetched it for him, knowing exactly where he'd left it on the table. "Here you are."

He accepted it, scowling. "Cold," he complained. Referring to the ice, I supposed.

"Don't lay it against your skin," I warned, leaning over to check, "keep the cloth between or you'll get a burn, here." He had slipped the icepack under his boxers and I had no compunction about reaching in to get it. He made a soft, stifled noise of discomfort and I found that my free hand drifted to his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "It's alright," I said, "it's alright, I'm a doctor, okay? I promise." I pulled out the ice pack and set it carefully over the cloth. "Okay, better, see?"

At least here I was in my element: someone was hurting, and I knew how to fix it. Not like in our battle against Moriarty, when I had been a liability as often as not. I wasn't a complicated man like Sherlock, whose interest lay entirely in the twists and turns and deceptions of the mind. The body was my purview: simple and honest in its needs, straightforward in its hopes and desires.

The body doesn't lie.

He took up his phone and ignored me, fiddling with the buttons. Knowing how prickly he could be I wasn't offended, brushing off my hands as I got up.

"Where are you going," he asked at once.

"Nowhere," I said, "just wanted to check the rest of my supplies." I knew that the pain meds would make him tired, and I thought I could at least putter around the flat while he slept.

He paused, frowning at the phone. "Sit behind me," he said.

"What?"

"It's uncomfortable leaning on the headboard, and I don't want to have to lie flat. Come sit behind me on the bed so I can lean against you."

He tried to shift enough to make room for me, but his movements were hampered by the injury. He did look a little pitiable, shuffling on the mattress like a seal on dry land.

"Alright, stop that before you hurt yourself," I warned, catching his shoulders in my hands to hold him up. "Here, stop."

The bed was small, and I didn't think the two of us would enjoy both squeezing in. I had no idea why he thought the position would be more comfortable, but I supposed I didn't mind playing body pillow if it helped; he would soon fall asleep anyway, and it wouldn't hurt to give him his way this time.

I gently leaned him forward and, after an awkward moment of indecision, slipped in behind him so he could settle against my chest. At the last second I grabbed a pillow and shoved it between my legs, so his weight wasn't on me there … call it lumbar support. I ended up tugging him back a little so he could sit with comfort, as it did appear that the position was pulling less on his injured side.

Because he had slid down the bed he fit much better this way than he had on the couch, the back of his head resting on my breastbone, his hair tickling the underside of my chin. With nowhere else to put my arms, I slipped one around his waist and rested my hand on his bad hip, holding the ice pack in place for him.

It was a strange feeling to be so close to him, particularly as I was still kind of annoyed from earlier. Most of my hurt feelings had been washed away by concern, but they were there under the surface.

"This is a better hug, isn't it," he said.

We still weren't understanding the concept of mutual hugging, I saw. "I think part of the difficulty is that we're not quite compatibly sized," I said, diplomatically. "Maybe it's harder when the active hugger is short."

He smirked. "Sounds like a personal problem."

Soon he was drifting from a combination of the meds and his own exhaustion – either asleep or doing a pretty good imitation of it. He didn't snore or even move, and I passed the time playing scrabble on his phone.

"Pyrrolic," he muttered, long after I'd thought him down for the count.

It was a damn good play. Triple word score. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

He turned his face so that his cheek rested against my shirt, and fell quiet. The room slowly darkened and I felt my own eyelids start to droop: I had worked up quite a sleep debt lately, after all, and Sherlock made a surprisingly good blanket, for all he was so scrawny. Immobilizing, but warm.

"John," he whispered, and I tipped my head down to see his face.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about what I said before." This close, he could probably feel my muscles tighten up; I forced myself to un-clench. "I didn't mean to insult you." He dropped his head back as though it was too heavy for him to support, and it clunked against my collarbone.

"It's fine," I said, keeping my voice low. "I shouldn't be so sensitive. I'm a doctor, after all ... there's nothing to be ashamed of."

I hoped he would just agree with me and go back to sleep, because if he attacked me now I didn't think I'd be able to handle it again.

"If I can ask … why did you decide to take it?" He turned so his ear was resting right over my heart, and I wondered if he was testing his skills as a human lie-detector. "The medication."

I was quiet for a long time, thinking of how best to answer.

"Well, there was this fellow in my unit called Martin," I said, finally. "We weren't close mates or anything, but I knew him – we all knew him. He got sent home early, really unexpected-like, and we heard maybe it was because of the mental stuff, but we didn't know. Just one day he was there, working away like the rest of us, and the next day his bunk was empty, all his kit cleared out, name crossed of the duty roster.

It became rather a joke around the squad that we were all going to _pull a Martin_ – you know, get home early, without being, erm, blown up or anything. I'd said it myself, more than once. We all did."

I held off, and the dark room was silent except for Sherlock's rhythmic breaths. I thought he might have dozed off, and I was going to look like a right prat if he had, blabbering on to myself. I didn't check, though; after a moment, I started up again.

"So apparently he was home for about two weeks when he told his wife he was going to run and pick up the dry cleaning. After four hours she called the police. They found him in his car, still holding his service pistol, no note, nothing. He'd had two young children and another one on the way."

Without entirely meaning to, I tightened my arm around Sherlock's middle.

"We all heard about this, back on base, and it just seemed – absolutely nutters. I mean, he was _home_, he was back with his _family _– most of us would have given our left nut to have pulled a Martin, and then he just – what?" I shook my head.

"But then after I'd been back for maybe a month or so, I was sitting in this miserable little flat that the government arranged, and I was thinking –" _How useless I was, how useless everything was since I'd come back from the war. _"Well, all the usual things, I guess. And that's when I found myself thinking, _this is just what poor Martin must have thought _… it was like all of a sudden I could understand it, something that had made absolutely no sense to me not that long ago. Clear as day … "

Sherlock shifted and I instinctively adjusted my weight to accommodate, sliding my arm around his back so he wouldn't roll out of my grasp. "Anyway, that was the day I agreed to go on the meds for a little while, just to sort of help me settle in. I figured anything would be better than, you know, pulling a Martin …"

I chuckled weakly, but Sherlock didn't make a sound. Perhaps he really had fallen asleep.

"Anyway, yeah." The mystery of poor Martin was not one I was ever going to solve. Why him and not me? We'd both seen the same things, but it just took everybody different, that's all. "I think they did help a bit ... the nightmares seemed to taper off, and the anxiety ..."

I would have shrugged, if I didn't have a lapful of consulting detective to contend with.

Sherlock turned his head sideways under my chin, knocking my jaw up. "Thank you for telling me," he said, his voice low.

I was embarrassed at how I'd been going on and on – I lifted a hand to guide his head onto the notch of my sternum, and when he settled there I closed my eyes. "You're still a bad hugger," I muttered. "Go to sleep."

After that I must have dozed off as well, because the next thing I was aware of was Sherlock trying to move off of me, levering himself with difficulty onto the mattress at my side.

It was obviously late, maybe midnight. I reached for the bedside lamp. "Do you need another pill?"

"No," he said, muffled, "I was just hot."

I rummaged down the side of the bed for the second ice pack, cracking open the inner bag. "Here," I said, holding out my hand for the other one, which was now room temperature and dripping.

My back was stiff from reclining. I was still in my undershirt and trousers, and I hadn't brushed my teeth. I inched myself up the headboard to get up and go to my own room.

One of his fingers came up to hook into my shirt. "Where are you going," he slurred demandingly.

"It's late, and I'm tired," I said softly. "I'm going to bed."

"It's fine," he said, "There's space here."

Ooh, right. I had forgotten that we were apparently sharing beds from now on. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Do you want to sleep by yourself this time? I won't mind, I promise."

"I just said it was alright," he said, impatiently, "hurry up."

I watched him roll with difficulty onto his back. "You know, Sherlock, even couples that have been together for a long time don't always sleep in the same bed," I said carefully, slipping a pillow under him so he wouldn't roll onto his bad side.

I realized later that it was the first time I had referred to us as a couple.

"But they usually do, right?" Really, he seemed pretty concerned about doing the thing correctly, for a man I had once caught drying clothes in the microwave.

"Well, yes."

"Right, then!" he said brightly, patting the space next to him.

"It just doesn't seem like you sleep very well when we're sharing a bed," I stalled.

He cocked his head. "I sleep better than normally."

That was a vaguely horrifying thought, when I considered his tossing and turning the night before: _really? That was a good night for you?_

But I was also surprised by a strange flush of pride.

So I got up to strip down to my smalls and then slid in behind Sherlock, who did not react to my presence in the least. There did not seem to be more than a foot of space between his back and the edge of the bed, so that was what I squeezed into.

"Is this alright?" I asked. "Sherlock?"

He inched back against me, pressing just the outline of his big toe against my shin. "It's fine, John," he said. "I'm tired, now. Can we go to bed?"

"Sure," I said. I leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp, and he turned up his face to me at the same time. I realized after a beat that he was offering his cheek for a kiss. So after a moment's hesitation, I bent down and touched my lips to his high cheekbone. I thought he smiled, faintly.

Then I turned out the light.

We were pushed together much closer than the night before, which was intensely uncomfortable, but after all we were both tired, him more than me. I heard him shifting in the dark and hoped he wasn't putting stress on his hip. Then there was silence.

He was barely even breathing, from what I could hear, and all of a sudden it made me nervous; he could have thrown a clot or something insane like that, with me lying right within reach and not even knowing what had happened. His big toe was unrevealing, but I thought it felt quite cold. Surely toes should be warmer?

I reached for him under the blankets, just slowly and carefully sliding my hand over his, making sure that we stayed a goodly span apart and I could not be seen as making advances. I linked my pinkie around his thumb, and felt him twitch. I relaxed.

"Goodnight," I whispered.

I heard him snort, and his fingers tightened briefly around mine. "Goodnight."

* * *

><p>The next morning I woke up before Sherlock and rolled immediately onto my side to check on him. He was lying with his face turned away me and his fingers still curled around my pinkie.<p>

Without waking him I gently pulled down his boxers, which felt – weird – and examined his bruised hip. It looked much worse today, swollen and purple, but I could see the way it would heal already in the pattern. It wasn't the most awful pointer I'd seen; he'd be alright, if I could keep him off it for a few days.

Sherlock shifted under my hands and without thinking much of it, I put a hand on his stomach to stop him from moving. "Shsh, Sherlock," I whispered, "it's alright, it's just me."

"John?" he opened his eyes and fixed them at once on my expression.

"I'm just checking on this," I said. "It's going to be more painful now than before, but you'll be feeling better soon. It looks alright."

He glanced down at himself, at the dark curling hairs which were poking out from under the side of his underwear where I had drawn it down. "Let me go," he said, his voice low.

I didn't let him go. "it's alright," I repeated, "Sherlock, I'm a doctor. It's alright." I reached for the discarded ice pack, barely cool now, and laid it gently over the bruise, hoping he would feel better if he was covered. "I'm not looking," I said, pressing down gently. "Does that feel better?"

He didn't react at all to the pressure, either with pleasure or pain. "It's fine," he said.

"Right." I got up off the bed and he rolled over, looking disgruntled, his hand dropping down to hold the ice pack in place. "You keep that on for a while, and we'll go to heat later today, alright?"

I was going to run out of icepacks, but we had a few bags of frozen peas we probably wouldn't have ever eaten anyway.

"Are you ready for another pill?"

He nodded and I went to go gather supplies, coming back to find him on his phone again. He took the meds as I handed them to him, swallowing them with another splash of milk.

"Fresh ice," I said, and Sherlock obediently turned on to his side so I could lay fabric over his hip. "I think you're getting to like this, being spoiled," I teased him, gently pressing down the bag of peas so he wouldn't dislodge them.

I expected him to say something either cutting or dismissive – I had got used to baiting him by now – but instead he glanced up at me, his eyes serious and calm. "I want toast for breakfast," he said distinctly. "And jam."

I was unsettled by his response but I nodded jerkily, leaving the room at once. "And _tea_," he called out as I walked down the stairs.

I took my time making a plate of scrambled eggs. Sherlock was definitely behaving oddly, odder than usual, I mean. Wanting to be sat with, wanting breakfast in bed? That wasn't at all like him – plus he actually seemed to be listening to my advice to take it easy, which was unthinkable. For as long as I'd known him, he had always wanted to be left alone with _the_ _work_. Now he was suddenly willing to be coddled?

I made up a tray and brought it to him, then helped him sit up receive it. "How's it feeling now," I inquired. "Have the meds kicked in?"

He nodded without speaking, rummaging through the covered plates to find the sausages Mrs. Hudson had sent up, and attacking them with vigor. For a not-housekeeper, she was awfully generous with the leftovers.

"We have to find Moriarty's replacement," he said, mouth full. "Only his closest associates would be capable of carrying on his campaign. That should narrow it down."

I felt like I was missing some information here, but it was often more trouble to get Sherlock to explain something that it was to just go with it. This seemed like one of those times. "Whatever we do, we'd better to it soon," I said, "before whoever it is tries again."

I slid the rejected plate of eggs over and snagged a fork, stuffing down a couple bites while Sherlock picked at the jam. "They won't be able to touch us in the flat," he said, in a bored tone, "My brother will be sure of that. It's only when we're out and about that they have half a chance."

Great, as long as we _never left home_.

"It should be possible to assemble a list of known associates," said Sherlock thoughtfully. "And perhaps track their recent movements."

"As long as you can do it from bed," I said. "You need to keep off that hip if you want it to recover." As I knew from personal experience, walking on an injury (even a psychosomatic one) could cause more trouble, as you adjusted your gait to compensate. He'd be out of commission for a few days at least … longer, much longer, if there was a fracture. I hoped to God it was just a nasty bruise.

"I'll tell you what," said Sherlock, regarding me slyly, "We can make a deal. I'll stay off my feet, if you stay in the flat."

I didn't like where this was going. "I'm going to need a breath of fresh air," I protested. "And I have to check in at work eventually."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "The minute you leave the flat I'm going to get up and hobble out to find Moriarty's accomplice," he said.

"You'll fetch up at the base of the stairs with a broken neck."

"Then you had better stay here." His face had taken on that mulish expression that meant he was determined to get his way. I saw that expression a lot.

"Sherlock, you can't _blackmail _somebody into _staying with you_ by _threatening to hurt yourself!_"

"I'm merely stating the facts," he responded, with enviable coolness. "If you leave I'll be bored, and if I'm bored my mind will wander, and then _I_ will wander out to find our suspect without you. You're the one insisting that I stay here and recover. My side is hurting again," he added, his voice smaller now. "Can I have another pill?"

I felt like a prize arse, although he always deserved it when I was cross. "Of course you can have a pill," I said, my voice softening. I went to get him the bottle from the sideboard, which was almost out, and decided not to mention that I would need to make a run to the pharmacy eventually.

He accepted the offering when I returned. "Do we have a deal?" he demanded.

"Fine," I said, taking a seat next to him on the bed. "I suppose I can wait another day to get sacked, let's sit here and stare at each other."

"Good, lovers are supposed to be always gazing with adoration into each other's eyes," he said.

It's difficult to tell his brand of sarcasm from his usual dry tone of disgust, but I'm fairly certain he was joking.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**.**

**Chapter Six**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

You can imagine that things got a bit barmy in the flat for the next few days, as I tried to keep Sherlock resting calmly in bed, and he tried to drive me _utterly round the twist_. I have to assume that was his plan, anyway.

I'm not sure which one of us was more successful.

For the better part of a week I had fed him pills and brought him tea and _rubbed his back_ on one memorable occasion, and yet he was still complaining that his side hurt. The bruising seemed significantly improved to me, having gone through all the normal parade of colors (red, purple, green, and now finally yellow) and the swelling almost totally gone. I couldn't think why it would be so tender; it was very strange. If he wasn't feeling better soon I was going to drag him in for x-rays, if I had to dodge snipers all the way to the hospital to do it.

Formerly a fully-functioning adult (for the most part) Sherlock suddenly had to be bullied into doing the simplest things: brushing his teeth, putting socks on … since when did I have to remind him to use the loo?

We were entirely dependent on Mrs. Hudson for supplies – pills, food, clean clothes – because he wouldn't let me leave the flat, as though armed gunmen were going to launch an assault on the Sainsbury's and murder me at the pin-and-chips machine.

Also, he wouldn't sleep unless I was within view, preferably within reach. And he was refusing to take anything that contained a sedative: he insisted on reading the backs of the boxes first.

So there went _that_ plan.

Mycroft's lovely-but-unnamed assistant had brought round a series of manila files which Sherlock had immediately spread across the bed (my bed, as it was bigger) and started to pour through, one at a time. He didn't want to discuss the case or have me help him; in fact he didn't seem inclined to share any of his thoughts on the subject, particularly. What he really wanted me to do, as near as I could make out, was to sit quietly in the corner and watch him work without distracting him.

It made for some long afternoons, I can tell you.

"John, can you text Mycroft for me?" he asked now, after a solid three hours of uninterrupted silence.

"Wha? Sorry, what?" I blinked awake. I had been dozing in the chair at his desk – mysteriously I hadn't been sleeping well, perhaps because a giant octopus had apparently taken over my bed at night. If I wasn't having nightmares about Afghanistan, or the explosion at the pool, or mysterious snipers, I was being woken up every twenty minutes with Sherlock's squirming.

"I said, could you please text my brother. Tell him I need to talk to him."

"I don't have his number," I pointed out, although I was already reaching for my phone.

"Just text me. He'll be reading it."

That was … creepy as hell. Although I had my doubts, I quickly sent Sherlock a text that read,

_- Mycroft, Sherlock says he needs to talk to you. JW. _

I heard Sherlock's phone beep as the message was received, and I waited expectantly, watching Sherlock leaf through the close-printed pages of one of the files. He frowned, and made a note. My phone chimed.

**Unlisted Number:  
><strong>_- Tell him the usual time._

"Err, does he always read _all _of our texts?" I asked, nervously. I could think of some things I had sent to Sarah that I didn't really want all of the British government to see.

Sherlock glanced up at me. "No idea. What does he say?"

"He says, 'the usual time.' What's the usual time?"

"It means I'll talk to him three hours from now, minus the number of minutes of today's date."

I blinked. "Sure," I said. "Well, of course, it would be. That's how Harry and I set our coffee meet-ups, too."

Sherlock ignored me, flipping over one of the pages and beginning to carefully read the back, line by line. I sighed.

Since it was the 18th, I suppose I still had two hours and forty-two minutes to kill. I would have liked to read the pages closest to me, which seemed to feature a gruesome account of a train accident, from what I could make out upside-down, but Sherlock got itchy when I tried to touch the his files – apparently he had them sorted into some system that made sense only to him, perhaps involving the number of days in a leap year. Anyway I couldn't make out half his notes, which filled every margin with his spidery scrawl.

Sherlock's phone chirped again, and he glanced at it, grunted, and didn't answer.

"Lestrade?" I asked, and he nodded in vague assent. We had been dodging his calls regarding the corpse in the townhouse for days, which I thought looked suspicious but Sherlock apparently wasn't concerned about. ("It's better that we keep out of it for now," Sherlock kept saying; "when he has specific information to tell me, he'll come here").

I still didn't know how he was planning to deal with that whole mess. Nor had he told me anything about who he suspected might be Moriarty's accomplice, although he had been working through the files for days now.

Sometimes Sherlock talked through his theories with me, but more often he did not, and this appeared to be one of those times. He liked to save everything for the 'big reveal' at the end, like a magician, pulling out a series of bright colored handkerchiefs from a perfectly ordinary looking hat. I supposed that was why he did it; if he kept his guesses a secret until they were proven, he appeared to never be wrong. That was the real magic trick.

"Should we be going somewhere to meet Mycroft?" I asked, checking my watch some time later. "Or is he coming here?"

"My brother won't be going anywhere, John," said Sherlock, with a hint of scorn. "He never leaves the office."

He bloody well left the office when he was abducting _me, _I thought, but didn't say. "How are we going to reach him, then?"

"Through the internet," said Sherlock. "So he can squint at us through his computer screen, as he does so love to do."

I did _not _want to hear about other situations in which Mycroft watched us through the computer. Wasn't even going to go there. "Right," I said.

"Bring your laptop over." I came to sit next to him on the bed, pointing the webcam towards us, and let Sherlock type.

He went to some dot-gov/uk website I'd never heard of before, and entered a complicated series of terms into the search box. A plain blue window was the only result, until Sherlock clicked on the _print_ button. Then a chat window and a video screen popped up, exactly like any other chat website, although I suspected this one was a lot more difficult to access.

"The password is _Diogenes_," he said, typing it into the text box. Then he hesitated with his finger over the carriage return. "My brother - is not an expert on the subject of relationships," he said, finally, "although he thinks he is. Don't listen to a word he says."

I just had time to wonder if Mycroft might have a problem with two men being together, at least when one of the men was his brother. But I didn't have time to ask, because Sherlock hit the button and the screen jumped into life.

"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock impatiently, adjusting the camera angle by moving the laptop.

The picture was grainy, as though taken through satellite. "Good afternoon, Sherlock," said a reedy, familiar voice. "And Doctor Watson too, I see. So good to see you both again."

"Yes yes, skip the pleasantries," said Sherlock. "These files do not tell us who might be trying to kill John."

"Kill _me?" _I asked. "What do you mean, kill me? The last bullet was aimed at _you._"

"We have no idea where that bullet was aimed," said Sherlock briskly, "as we fortunately did not have the opportunity to find out. However, I have reason to believe that you are the target now."

"How d'you get that, then?"

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip, which I suspected was an affectation; he was rarely uncertain, in my experience. "That was what Moriarty wanted to do," he said, reluctantly. "No doubt he would have killed me eventually, but he wanted to make sure you were out of the way first."

I wasn't used to thinking of myself as an especially valuable target. It was almost flattering.

"He only ever cared about you because he believed you stood in the way of his enticing _me_ to join his organization," said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes.

"Right he was, too," I muttered.

"If we could be so good as to continue?" came Mycroft's soft, well-mannered drawl. "I do have some rather important matters to attend to still tonight."

"Yes yes, keeping the world safe for bureaucracy," said Sherlock with asperity. "My point is that these files do not give us the information we require."

"They contain everything we know about Moriarty's network of associates," Mycroft said. "Everything we have been able to piece together since you first brought him to my attention. I'm confident, my dear brother, that you would find the answer if you would merely concentrate on the question."

"I have concentrated," said Sherlock, crossly. "And as you are superior to me in matters of pure intellect, I was hoping you might have some _additional_ insight to offer."

I was dead surprised to hear Sherlock saying such a thing; I had always thought that he and Mycroft were rivals for the title of cleverest brother, but it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest to cede the ground.

"Ah, but we work best as a pair, _petit frère," _said Mycroft. "You do the running about, and I do the intellectual heavy lifting, isn't that so?"

"I would hardly call my contributions _running about_, but you are essentially correct. Which is why I'm requesting that you fill your proper role and identify the man we are looking for."

Mycroft sniffed. "What is your relation to dear Doctor Watson these days?" he inquired lazily.

"I fail to see what that has to do with anything," Sherlock snapped. "Do you know the answer or not?"

"You must allow me my curiosity, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "It's rather rare to see you rise to the level of emotion. I confess I am intrigued. Shall we perhaps trade information?"

"I will do you any number of favors," said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "I will fetch things for you and not throw them in pools later."

"That would be most appreciated," said Mycroft, "but first do me the courtesy of answering my little inquiry. Why ever would Doctor Watson give up his job to stay home and play nursemaid to you? He cannot have gotten so very fond of your personality, as it is difficult at best - nor of your behavior, which is generally known to be atrocious."

"John loves me," said Sherlock, with a hint of defensiveness that had me immediately reaching for his hand.

"Yes, so I see," said Mycroft.

Sherlock had twisted his fingers through mine and bent our arms up so that his brother could not fail to spot them on-screen. "Tell me what we need to know," he demanded, wringing my hand so it would soon be red and sore.

"The man you're looking for is Sebastian Moran," said Mycroft. "If that is his real name."

Sherlock reached unerringly for a folder. "There's barely a page about him here. Explain your conclusion."

"Everybody else in those files had a reason to kill Moriarty themselves, if they could have done it," said Mycroft. "I don't believe any of them would be willing to plot his revenge. Only Moran was known to be at all fond of him."

Sherlock was squeezing my fingers tight. He'd be biting them, next. "Fine," he said. "Thank you, Mycroft. We must be off now." He reached for the laptop to close the screen.

"A moment, if you please," said Mycroft. "I would like to have a brief chat with Dr. Watson, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, I do mind," said Sherlock, "Goodbye." He shut the computer with a snap.

"Well, that was childish," I said. He hadn't let go of my hand and was stroking it absently, like one might do to a cat.

"It was, rather. Can I have some juice? My stomach is hurting."

It was like living with a three year old.

Before I could answer my phone chimed; it was a new text. Sherlock seized it off the desk and opened it without asking. "Well?" I asked, not even bothering to protest this blatant invasion of my privacy.

"Mycroft, of course," he said, his tone bored. He shut my phone and put it in his own pocket. "Now, then, Moran," he muttered, "here it is. One paragraph. Rather a boring little case; the murder of one Ron Adair. Mycroft was only interested in the weapon used, which he believed to be some type of experimental air-rifle."

"I think it was just a regular rifle that tried to kill us the other day," I said.

The sound of another text. Sherlock's eyes flicked to mine, and then away.

"Quite. This man Adair was supposedly something of an online gambler. Moriarty's network launders money through online gambling; perhaps he'd won too much. From this quote it appears that Mycroft must have had some kind of informant within Moriarty's organization - damn, he never told me that. Dead now, of course. He indicated that the murder was committed by this fellow Moran. That's all we have."

"Mycroft expected you to get our sniper from _that_?" I asked blankly. "A half a paragraph in one file?"

"I could have done it, if I'd been feeling better. I'm not at my best, just now." He looked sulky.

He still had my phone. I heard it chime, again chiming from the recesses of his pockets. "Sherlock," I said, patiently.

He huffed and extracted it, checking the message without letting me see. He typed something. Using my upside-down reading skills again, I'm guessing it was _Sod off – SH._

"Juice, John," he said.

It's not like I wanted to talk to Mycroft – I had heard the whole, 'you break his heart and I'll break your fingers' speech before – but Sherlock's heavy-handedness always made me want to foil him. Obviously it wasn't going to happen right that moment, so I went downstairs to fetch his juice instead.

I had barely made it to the kitchen when I was distracted by a strange sound, like a muffled, jingly melody. I followed it to the living room, then traced it to the settee. Stuffed down to side of it was a sleek, shiny blackberry, one of the newest ones with a touchpad and a video screen. Had not-Anthea left it here when she brought the files?

There was a notice indicating a new message: I hit _accept_ and the screen brought up the same chat window I'd seen on my laptop upstairs, obviously activated on the other end this time.

Mycroft's placid face regarded me through the video scream.

"Hello, Mycroft," I said patiently. "It seems you left a nice piece of tech here at the flat."

"Consider it my gift to you," he said, with magnanimity.

"_John?"_ I heard Sherlock call from upstairs. _"What's taking so long?"_

"_In a minute!"_ I shouted back. I sat down with the phone on my lap, keeping steady eye contact with the man that Sherlock had called the British government. "Is this the big brother lecture?" I asked. "Only I do like to know."

"Not at all. How terribly common."

"_I can hear you talking down there! Who are you talking to?"_

"Sherlock doesn't seem to want us to chat," I pointed out.

"Yes, well, there are many things which Sherlock does not want that would undoubtedly be in his best interest." Mycroft sniffed. "It's most irritating."

I smothered a smile. "Well we're alone now," I said, "at least for the moment. You can say anything you wish to me."

"Capital," said Mycroft. "It has come to my attention that your relationship with my brother is no longer platonic."

"Er, no," I said.

"Indeed. Congratulations."

I blinked. Obviously it was possible for me to get away with it around Sherlock, who had little practical experience with human emotion, but how in the hell had I managed to fool _Mycroft_?

"Um. Thanks?"

"I did not think your interests tended in that direction the first time I encountered you together," Mycroft continued. "It is very rare for me to be mistaken about this type of thing."

I just bet it was.

"I was … rather surprised also," I said, honestly.

"Yes. Yes, I imagine you were." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Allow me to be honest with you, Doctor Watson. I had not anticipated that my brother would want to have – relations again. He had not shown any interest in this facet of human existence, hereto now. Suddenly he finds himself in love with you, and I find it peculiar."

"In love?" I choked. "Erm, we haven't exactly – "

Mycroft appeared to be reading my face with as much difficulty as he would have with a dinner menu. "Ah," he said, at last. "I see. How interesting."

"I – don't think I should say anything else," I said, stiffly, "except that I have committed to your brother and I intend to keep my word."

Mycroft nodded to himself as though this was exactly as expected. "My brother is a terribly persuasive individual," he said. "It would not surprise me if – well, but that is a matter for another day. I have found the answers I was looking for. I wish you success in your endeavor."

"You – do?"

"Yes, of course."

It should have made me feel better, but somehow it didn't. I had been keeping this secret for so long – from Sherlock, from Lestrade, from everybody … it was like a heavy weight I had been carrying around, dragging me down. Now it almost seemed like Mycroft understood, and somehow I had the mad desire to confess to someone, anyone; "Mycroft," I stammered, "the truth is, my feelings – aren't entirely clear to me. I've never, er – that is, I've never …"

"Yes," said Mycroft. "It would be bit of a mystery to you, I daresay."

"_John!"_ I could hear Sherlock banging around upstairs, no doubt trying to get out of bed although he'd barely moved in days. _"I'm coming down there!"_

"Wait, Sherlock," I hollered back, although I winced at the terrible manners of shouting while on the phone. "I'll be right up!"

"And of course, it's impossible for people's feelings to change," said Mycroft blandly. "Obviously you can never _learn_ to love someone."

"I'm just – I'm not sure that you can learn to - love someone _that way _…"

I cringed at the sound of a crash from upstairs. _"John, don't be talking to him! I won't have it!" _

"Doctor Watson, your feelings are entirely natural," said Mycroft kindly. "You mustn't worry so."

I could hear Sherlock on the stairs, now. "For God's sake, fathead, be careful!" I shouted.

"Thank you for the enlightening conversation, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft. "Do tell my brother that Moran can be found on 29 West Harrow, directly North of Gibraltar Street, would you?"

"Um, sure," I said, stupidly.

"Would you like to write it down, perhaps?" He inquired politely. "Only, it does seem a bit complicated and you appear to be in some small way at a loss."

"Erm, yes. Yes." I took up a pen and paper and hastily scribbled down the address. "Got it, thank you, Mycroft."

He beamed amiably down at me from the screen. "But of course, Doctor Watson, of course! It really is my pleasure."

"Goodbye, then," I managed.

"Have a pleasant evening," he responded. "And do be careful, of course, both of you." He bowed slightly and the screen went instantly blank.

"Is he gone," Sherlock demanded, coming in from the other room. "John? John! What did he say to you?" His hands were tugging impatiently on my face, turning it up to him, so that he could read my expression. I tried mutely to turn away and he adjusted his grip on my forehead, holding it steady and into the light. "You shouldn't have talked to him," he scolded. "I told you not to."

"He was fine," I tried to say, not entirely convincingly. "He was quite a good sport, actually. Didn't threaten any of my bones or anything."

"He's a menace," said Sherlock darkly. He was crowded into my personal space, winding his arms around my neck, fingers twining in the short hair at the back of my head.

_Now_ he learns how to hug.

"You need a shower," I murmured, dropping my head on his shoulder. "You smell awful."

"Help me into the tub," he said. As if he hadn't managed to make it all the way down the stairs by himself.

I wasn't in a mood to argue. "Alright," I said, and carefully extracted myself, helped him lean against me, keeping his arm over my shoulder.

"You are a very good height for a prop," he noted cheerfully, his fingers gripping my sleeve. "Most conveniently sized." I ignored this obvious attempt at baiting me and walked with him to the washroom, slowing my own steps to match his uncertain pace.

I'd set him up a chair and a washcloth in the shower, so he could cleanse himself without unnecessary strain. Of course he wanted a bath today, apparently, so I got that set up and ran the taps. Then I took the chair outside and left him to it, waiting in the hall in case he had trouble getting out. I sat the chair up against the wall and sank down, leaning my head back, listening to the splashing of the water in the tub.

"Mycroft gave us an address," I said, closing my eyes. "I wrote it down."

"Menace," Sherlock muttered.

There was a long silence after that; it wasn't like Sherlock to keep quiet. "Alright?"

"Yes," he said. He sounded drowsy, content. "The warm water is – good."

I smiled. Somebody was getting a rubber duckie for Christmas.

"Don't fall asleep in there," I warned. There was no answer, except for faint splashes.

Fortunately the referred pain to his shoulder and ribs was gone, and he could manage to both wash himself and go to the bathroom unassisted, which was a relief to both us, no doubt. But when I thought about it, I realized that if he had needed help with those more ... _intimate_ tasks, I would have done it. Awkward as it would have been.

I couldn't really think of anything I wouldn't do for him, if he needed it.

If he brought me the corpse of another psychopath he'd murdered, I'd probably cut the head of it myself.

It struck me that, essentially, this was a pretty fair definition of love.

.


	7. Chapter 7

.

**Chapter Seven  
><strong>

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

Although we now knew the name of our enemy, and his current location, I was in for a disappointment if I'd expected Sherlock to leap up shouting, _the game is afoot! _In fact, Sherlock didn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything other than lie on the couch with his hands folded on his breast, deep in thought.

Finally I left him to it, straightening up the flat around him and trying not to notice that his wet hair was dripping on the couch cushions.

"John," he said finally, after a long silence, just as I was thinking about getting out the hoover or maybe doing the washing up.

"Yes?"

"Would you do me the favor of fetching a bag from the hall closet?"

Sherlock had asked me to do many, many odd things in our time together, so this one did not particularly rate. I rose willingly and went to the door, looking in at the disordered mess inside. "Which one?"

"The black rucksack. But _don't touch it!" _

I jumped back. "You just told me to fetch it!" I said. "How do you expect me to fetch it without touchingit?"

"Put on my black gloves, they're in the pocket of my coat."

Grumbling, I went through Sherlock's pockets and extracted the leather gloves inside. They were far too long and too narrow to fit properly, but I stuffed my hands in anyway. "Good, now?" I asked, with exaggerated patience.

"Don't let the bag make contact with any part of you, or anything in the flat. Hold it at arm's length and bring it over slowly."

I knew from experience that there was no sense dealing with Sherlock when he was like this: he'd tell me what he wanted, when he wanted, that was all there was to it. I did as he said.

"Good." He said. "Put it inside this plastic bag, if you would." He extended a garbage bag from the kitchen, holding it open with two hands as I gingerly dropped the rucksack inside. Then he tied off the top and set the whole thing on the carpet. "Excellent. Thank you, John."

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" I asked. "Is there a bomb in that bag, or something?"

"Good lord, no," said Sherlock lazily. "How you do reach these ridiculous assumptions."

Not exactly answering the question, I noted. I would have pressed further, but just then we were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Sherlock and I exchanged a long glance. "Expecting someone?" I asked, casually.

"Actually , no."

I reached automatically for my gun before remembering it was gone, probably melted down to nothing by Sherlock's mad accomplice. I felt a momentary pang of grief: I had carried that gun right through the war and through the whole mess with Moriarty. But at least it had died a good death – its last act had been to bury a bullet into Jim's forehead, and that's exactly how it would have wanted to go.

"Right," I said, getting to my feet, weaponless. "I'll get it."

It turned out just as well that I didn't have the Browning: it was Lestrade at the door, and he already looked unhappy.

"Hello, Inspector," said Sherlock cordially. I turned around just in time to see him use his foot to subtly slide the plastic bag under the settee.

"Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Why the devil won't you take my calls? A headless corpse in a townhouse, that's not interesting enough for you?"

He strode in, glancing about the flat as though as though he expected to see a ritual sacrifice in progress, which - to be fair - wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility. "Hullo, John," he added, clapping me on the shoulder. "How's the races?"

I choked, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at us but evidently decided that further inquiry was beneath him. "Obviously the case is of interest," said Sherlock, "I've merely been waiting to solidify my conclusions."

"Tea?" I inquired finally, having caught my breath.

"No, thanks. Conclusions, Sherlock? What conclusions?"

Sherlock reached for one of Mycroft's manila folders, which by now were scattered throughout the flat. He flipped it open and cleared off the table by shoving everything on it off onto the floor.

"Oi!" I shouted, then subsided. _Pick your battles, John._

Sherlock, continuing as if I hadn't interrupted, was flipping out pages like playing cards one after another. It took me a moment to realize they were photographs of dead men, their faces almost obliterated by various acts of violence. Some appeared to be shot or beaten to death, a few stabbed or garroted. "Homeless men," said Sherlock blandly, shuffling the photographs like a tarot card reader. "All of them murdered within the last five years. Six in total."

"I remember some of these cases," said Lestrade. "My god – are you saying these were all done by the same man?"

"The facial mutilations," said Sherlock casually. "Reminded me of our fellow at the townhouse. Most likely they use it as a method of ensuring they're not traced."

"'They'?"

"I have often told you that there is an organization in London responsible for great quantities of its crime," said Sherlock irritably. "Operating under your very nose, right within the shadow of the police department."

He reached for another folder and pulled out the crimes scene pictures from the townhouse, lingering lovingly on a shot of the decapitated neck. "Although it's unfortunate that we have no method of indentifying this poor soul" – he lied with his usual incredible facility – "I believe that all these murders are connected. Someone is killing homeless men, and they're becoming increasingly brazen, to the point where they're actually taunting the police."

I watched Lestrade's nostrils flare and recalled that he did hate to be taunted.

The Inspector was examined the photos closest to him; a man's face, blank in death, with a terrific hole coming out the side of his head. I didn't recognize the case, but that wasn't saying much as Sherlock had been solving crimes for years before I came along.

"An enormous caliber, that," said Sherlock blandly, "Fired in the middle of a crowded street, and nobody heard anything. No gunshot residue on the wound."

"Sounds like an air-rifle," I said suddenly. "I remember talk of those in the military."

"Air rifle, that rings a bell," said Lestrade. "Who was the fellow killed with one of those down on Flint street? Oh come on, Sherlock, you must know – I don't think you were in on the case, but you must have read about it."

"Flint street," said Sherlock, looking for all the world like a person who was racking his brains. "Now let me think. Sounds familiar."

"Aiden, or some such," said Lestrade, whipping out his smart phone. "Here it is, Ron Adair, thought to have been killed with some type of pneumatic weapon." He looked very pleased with himself for making this connection. "Do you think the cases might be connected?"

"Haven't the foggiest," said Sherlock, "Need more data."

"Says here he was involved in a scandal with the online gambling," said Lestrade, reading from his phone. "Maybe the homeless men were running numbers, or the like?"

"As good a theory as any, I suppose."

"It makes sense," said Lestrade, scribbling in his notebook. "Maybe we're looking for one killer, or maybe it's a gang responsible for all these men, and the Adair murder as well. Cor, that'd be something, to close so many cases at once."

"Indeed," said Sherlock, sweeping up the pages.

"It's sad," said the inspector, picking up a picture of the frozen, headless corpse. "Some homeless fellow that nobody ever missed. We don't even know who he was."

"Perhaps you can ask the man who killed him," said Sherlock.

Lestrade sighed, closing his notebook with a snap. "Well, I'll look into this Adair case again. Sherlock for God's sake, answer your phone once in a while, don't make me beg. John – take care of him. Although," he added, watching Sherlock make his way back to the kitchen with the files, "looks like maybe you already have."

"What?"

"Well, what am I supposed to think," he said, jovially; "last week he says you'll be taking your relationship _to the next level, _and now he's walking with a limp."

"Lestrade!" I flushed scarlet. "Leave off, you great arse."

"What are you two talking about?" Sherlock came back and leaned against my chair, looking a little put out at the two of us telling secrets. He never liked being left out of the joke.

"Nothing," said Lestrade.

"Stupid stuff," I said.

Sherlock looked unhappy. "I don't think I like you two being friends," he said, pressing against my side in an obvious request for attention. He was watching Lestrade, who was studying us closely.

Because I really do love him – the gangly git – it wasn't so hard to put my arm around his shoulder and give him a squeeze. It was a lot harder to tilt my head up to press a soft kiss against his hairline, but I did it.

He permitted it, wordlessly.

"Right, I'm off," said Lestrade. "If you're going to start in with that stuff."

"Oh is _that_ how to get rid of you?" Sherlock sounded genuinely interested. "Well, that is indeed a useful thing to know. I will remember."

"Call me later, John," said Lestrade, knocking Sherlock's shoulder as he made a beeline for the door. "Sherlock – don't do anything mad in the next few days, eh? And thanks, for the tip on the homeless connection."

"If by _tip _you mean _breaking the case open –_"

"Goodbye, Lestrade," I said, hurriedly.

He shut the door behind him with a slam.

"That went well," I said.

Sherlock ignored me, which was typical for him; he got off the couch and stretched luxuriously, then pulled out the plastic bag he had kept carefully hidden. He inspected it and seemed satisfied. "Up for a spot of trouble?" he inquired slyly.

I assumed this was not a sexual come-on. "Ready as ever," I said.

* * *

><p>"Alright then, so what's your genius plan here?" I asked, keeping my voice low as we sat in the back of a cab, headed for Harrow Street. "We've got a murder to cover up and a madman trying to kill us, and we're going to do what, exactly?"<p>

Sherlock smirked, a glint of teeth in the dark of the back seat. "You wouldn't really want me to spoil the surprise, would you?"

"Erm, yes, actually. That would be great."

"Pull over here," he said, leaning forward to speak to the cabbie.

"Here?" I looked around. We were in an empty street, and I couldn't see why we'd be getting out.

"Better to approach on foot," said Sherlock. "Come along, John."

I shrugged and we stepped onto the curb; Sherlock paid the cabbie (for once) and he drove away. "This way," said Sherlock, and I trotted after him, like a god-damned dog, just as Moriarty had always said I was.

I suppose if something is working for you …

Sherlock strode along the streets until he could cut over to Gibraltar, and then we hung closer to the houses, cutting through the alleys until we stood in front of 29 West Harrow. Then we stood in the shadows and looked at each other for a moment. I knew what I was thinking; that if we died tonight, I would be satisfied. We had killed Moriarty, after all, and if only we could take this Moran down with us, I'd have no complaints.

I don't know what Sherlock was thinking. Probably he was counting the hairs in my eyebrows or the bricks in the sidewalk. "Right," he said. "Be so good as to stay here in this alley, John. Give me about twenty minutes and then come in through the back."

"What? No," I said. I didn't want us to split up, and if we did, I didn't want to be the one staying where it was safe. "I'll go, Sherlock, just tell me what to do."

"I just told you what I want you to do," said Sherlock. He untied the plastic bag and pulled out the rucksack, holding it carefully by the handle with his gloved hand. _Sit, John. Stay. Good boy._

"Let me go with you," I said.

"I might need you on backup," he said, frowning. He set the bag cautiously down by his feet, seemingly trying to make up his mind about something. Finally he sighed, reaching into one of his voluminous pockets. "Here," said ungraciously, holding out a folded bundle of cloth.

I took it from him; it was surprisingly heavy for its size. I looked into his face, but his expression was unrevealing. "What is it," I asked cautiously – he was not in the habit of giving me presents, and I was hoping it wasn't an organ.

One side of his mouth twitched, which was his version of a smile, and then he whirled, stiff-backed, to face the building, keeping watch. Puzzled, I unwrapped the fabric.

It was a L9A1 Browning, dirty with wear, scuffed on the handle just as mine had been. I raised and sighted it; the weight felt exactly the same.

"Alright," I said, "it's a gun."

"It's your gun, as far as anyone ever needs to know." Sherlock sounded bored. "Matches the serial numbers and everything."

I blinked. It was not my gun, I could tell at a glance (the clip wasn't scratched by my obsessively checking and rechecking it) but it was a damn good match. I supposed he wanted me to be able to present it, if anybody ever asked. It _would_ look suspicious if I had to say I'd lost it.

"Are you just going to steal it again?" I asked. What I really meant was, _are you going to run off and leave me again? Get yourself killed without me? Keep secrets from me?_

Sherlock met my eyes, his expression flat. "I might," he said.

I sighed. At least he was being honest. "Right." I slipped it into my pocket and felt my heart-rate settle at the reassuring weight of it. Some people have security blankets.

"Thanks," I said.

He nodded stiffly. "Stay here," he said. "Wait twenty minutes, and then come after me."

"Wait!" I grabbed his coat. "What do you think you're going to do with one Browning and rucksack?"

"Actually, just the rucksack," said Sherlock, smugly. "I only gave you the gun as backup. Honestly John, you should learn that we don't need violence to solve all our problems."

I sputtered.

"Use your words," he said, absently.

"Here's a word for you: _wanker_."

He shook his head at my childishness. "We really don't require weaponry for this job, John. We have my immense intellect to rely on."

"Great," I said, "that's never let us down."

Sherlock scowled at me. "What would be your plan," he mused; "Go in there with your shiny new gun, I suppose, and shoot little bits of metal into anyone you could hit? That's _your_ idea of strategy."

Although not thrilled at his assessment of my character, I have to admit this was pretty much what I'd had in mind. After all, that was how we'd finally fixed Moriarty: we'd gone straight in there – bearded the dragon, if you will – and killed him. "Right, and what's your brilliant idea, again?"

"What? Oh. I'm just going to walk straight in there and introduce myself," said Sherlock.

I sighed. "Of course you are. You don't think Moran is going to recognize you?"

"He's not there, obviously," said Sherlock, no doubt deducing from the state of the post-box, or something. He smiled. "Oh, John, what would you do without me?"

_Women_, I thought but didn't say.

"Right. Twenty minutes, no less."

He strode out into the illumination of the street-lamps, made straight for the door, and hammered briskly. I sank reluctantly back into the shadows, feeling the shape of the gun in my pocket. The lights in the house flicked on, and the front door opened to permit a hulking brute who seemed to take up the entire door frame.

They exchanged words, Sherlock gesturing to the rucksack he had swung somewhat gingerly over his shoulder. Whatever they were saying, it quickly seemed to escalate; I couldn't hear what was being said, but a second man appeared behind the first, and they were all gestulating wildly. One of them reached for him and Sherlock tried to jerk back, but somehow his feet seemed to twist under him and he fell. They were on him in the next second, wrenching him to his feet, seizing and dragging him back into the house.

Shit, shit, shit – I really hoped this was part of his genius plan, because otherwise we were in deep trouble.

Despite Sherlock's orders, I ducked around to the side of the house, keeping out of the sightlines, to watch through one of the lower windows. They hustled him past, close enough that I could hear them cursing as he struggled. "Geroff," he said hoarsely, in a voice completely unlike his own.

I looked in like some pervy peeper. Sherlock was standing in the living room, clutching the knapsack protectively in his gloved hands, twisting his grip on the handle. One of the goons reached to snatch it from him, the other holding back as he tried unsuccessfully to grab for it back.

"It's mine," I heard him call, his voice high and unlike himself. "Give it here!"

One of the goons said something and the other one laughed. He had a tight grip on the back of Sherlock's neck and I didn't like it. I checked my watch; it had only been five minutes, and I had promised him twenty. I told myself I would wait until one of them hit him … and then I would _storm in there and kill them all._ I put my hand on the gun and felt better for having made a plan.

I watched one of the men open the rucksack and reach inside, with Sherlock still protesting in the background. He pulled out a wad of pound notes, bound together with a rubber band. I saw his mouth curve up into a smile.

I kept a close eye on my watch – ten minutes had already passed – when the two thugs seemed to reach some conclusion, muscling Sherlock out the back. A moment later he was tossed bodily off the back porch, sans rucksack.

"You _wankers!" _He bellowed, righting his clothing.

I jogged over to his side. "Alright, then?"

"Yes, perfectly," said Sherlock in his normal tone. "Tell me, John, did you happen to notice that window in the lavatory, which has been left most unwisely open?"

I did see it, now that he pointed it out.

"If you fired a bullet out of that window, it would most likely wind up lodged in this neighboring wall, wouldn't you say?"

Yes, I would say that.

"Excellent, John. As it so happens, I have changed my mind about the usefulness of that Browning in this situation. Please be so kind as to fire it into the wall, at about the height a bullet fired in the manner I have described would impact."

"Why?" I inquired, which I thought was a perfectly reasonable question.

"Because, this is a very quiet, residential neighborhood. Even one gunshot will have every pensioner within ten miles on the phone to the police, particularly the owners of number 31 Harrow, who are at this moment asleep on the second floor."

"Doesn't really answer the question," I pointed out.

Sherlock sighed, "Very well, John," he said, in his teacherly voice - the one he used when explaining why the rotting toenails were absolutely _not to be disturbed _from their position on the coffee table. "Because I happen to know that there is, at this time, an officer of the law only two streets over. An officer, in fact, who knows Lestrade rather well, being as that they are on the same cricket team. When the police are summoned they will arrive promptly, and they will easily deduce that the most likely origin of the gunfire is number 29 West Harrow. They will no doubt wish to search the house for the presumably illegal firearm it contains."

"Alright," I said.

"When they search the house, one of the first things they will encounter is a black rucksack, sitting in full view on the front settee. Upon investigating the contents of that rucksack, they will no doubt search the rest of the house."

"And what's in the bag, again?"

"Among other things, about half a pound of rather stale corn syrup, dyed red," said Sherlock promptly. "Also, a bloody roll of duct tape and the knife that was used to cut the head off of Jim Moriarty."

I nodded. "I see."

"My assumption is, if they look long enough, they'll also find the air rifle used to kill Ron Adair and at least one of our other murder victims. The title on the house will lead the police to Moran."

"Oh, he really did kill those others, then?" I hadn't been sure on this point, but it was the first opportunity I'd had to ask.

"Either him or someone in Moriarty's organization, anyway, yes."

"Who were they, the dead men?" I asked.

"Mycroft's informants," said Sherlock. "The man killed with the air rifle was his inside source for some time, you will recall, I did mention him."

"Mycroft uses homeless people to gather information, eh. Reminds me of someone." I briefly wondered if any of the dead men were in fact _Sherlock's _informants, but decided not to ask.

Sherlock glanced down at my watch. "Five minutes, John," he said patiently. "Before our officer continues his route."

"Right," I said. "Thanks for catching me up." Sherlock went to wait by the wall, and I stood at a distance. "Here goes nothing; cover your ears." I fired the shot, which was cracking loud; somebody nearby shouted. I took a solid five second pause, and then fired again.

"Lovely," said Sherlock. "Do pick up your shell casings, John, while I just see to these bullets." He dug them out of the wall with his pocket knife.

"Right, well, I do think we had better run, just now."

Already we could hear sirens, coming closer.

We took off, sprinting.

The houses behind us lit up, one by one, as we ran pell-mell down the alleyways. People were coming out into the street, their voices raised in excitement – I was guessing West Harrow wasn't used to much gunfire. I heard one or two people shouting after us but we easily outstripped them, dodging and ducking between the houses. I found myself shockingly happy, just to be running – the simple, animal pleasure of the ground pounding under my feet, of following after Sherlock, the blood racing in my lungs.

"For God's sake, hurry," said Sherlock breathlessly.

I could easily hear the glee in his voice. He was mad. We were both mad.

Finally we stopped, gasping, to lean against a wall when I couldn't hear anyone behind us. "I … have to say, Sherlock," I puffed, "This … seems like a really complicated … way to go about all this."

"Overkill, perhaps," he acknowledged. "But it's very importance that we never enter the chain of evidence. _Phew_." He bent at the waist to get more air; we weren't as young as we used to be. "When the case is reviewed I would prefer that our names not come up in any way." He straightened up, grinning. "The best we can do is drop a few unofficial hints and trust our dear friends at the Scotland Yard will connect the dots."

"Yeah, you're always going on about how astute they are," I said.

Sherlock had started cough from the cold air, and I had to wait for him to finish. "Yes, well, in this case we will be watching from the shadows to ensure that they draw the correct conclusions. For God's sake, John, let's take the tube home."

We caught the train from Borough High and ended up at Baker street long after midnight, just as Sherlock's cell phone started chirping with texts from Lestrade. "Oh, look," said Sherlock, cheerfully. "New info on the Townhouse Case. How very shocking."

I reminded myself that it probably wasn't appropriate to giggle while framing somebody else for murder.

"I think I am actually tired, John," said Sherlock, as we approached the flat at last. "I believe I could actually sleep for several hours consecutively."

A miracle, truly. I could probably do with a good twelve or thirteen hours, myself. And also a shower.

The flat was dark – it was the night of Mrs. Hudson's knitting circle – and I was wondering if I could somehow convince Sherlock to let me sleep _alone_ as we approached the door. But in the next second I had gripped Sherlock's thick coat and hauled him back as a dark shape stepped out of the shadows.

"Ah, at last," said a cultured, well-bred voice. "You've been holed up so I've barely had the chance to speak with you. It's good to meet you face to face, Mr. Holmes."

"Likewise," said Sherlock calmly. "Sebastian Moran, I presume?"

**.**


	8. Chapter 8

.

**Chapter Eight  
><strong>

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

The man who had been trying to kill me was tall and very good-looking, with a well-trimmed blond mustache and a hawkish nose. He was carrying an assault rifle, and unlike Moriarty he kept it dead fixed on Sherlock's chest, with a professional ease that spoke of military experience. It was another Steyr AUG; Moriarty must have bought them at bulk rate.

"Well, it has been an interesting night, Mr. Holmes," said Moran, sounding perfectly composed. "I have just heard that the police are looking for me in connection with several murders. Most remarkable. Incidentally, I believe a man calling himself Alex Woodbridge came to my home this evening with a mysterious bag. It did strike me as odd. Shall I tell you what he looked like, this Woodbridge?" He stroked the butt of his rifle. "You may find the description familiar."

I nudged Sherlock with my elbow. "Told you I should have gone in," I said. "You're too memorable." Come to think of it, that was a flaw in his whole genius plan: and if those goons could describe him to Moran, they could describe him just as easily to Lestrade and there went the whole thing, unraveling like Mrs. Hudson's knitting (she was a terrible knitter, Mrs. Hudson; too many herbal soothers, I reckoned).

Sherlock sighed. "Don't be ridiculous, John. It doesn't matter - nobody is going to say anything to anybody."

Involuntarily I glanced over at Moran, who smiled politely back at me. "You are entirely correct, Mr. Holmes. I'm not planning on either of you surviving long enough for it to matter."

"Really?" Sherlock raised a single eyebrow. "What a disappointment."

"Oi, how about we don't _antagonize – _"

"I'll shoot him first," said Moran, indicating me, "while you watch. And then you'll have the chance to make one decision."

Sherlock looked only mildly irritated. "Honestly, not very creative, are you? Your boss said the same thing to me, word for word, not too long ago."

It seemed odd I couldn't remember that conversation - but I suppose there was a period, before I got there, when Sherlock and Moriarty had been alone together. I'd just assumed they'd traded verbal barbs, maybe some obscure puns or something.

Moran raised the rifle. "Yes, well, consider this to be me, finishing his work." It was the kind of thing a person said right before they started shooting, and Sherlock gently tugged my sleeve, pulling me a little behind him which was – strangely chivalrous of him, considering that _I was the one with the ruddy gun._

"Idiot," said Sherlock, without heat. "Have you really failed to figure it out?" I realized after a beat that he was talking to Moran – _idiot _being one of his familiar terms for me, usually. (To be fair, my petnames for him typically featured the words 'daft' and 'git' in various combinations). "I've been covering for you since that foolishness at the police station, but it was difficult. You've got to stop blundering about. We still have need of you."

I got the feeling this was not what the blond man had been expecting to hear. "What are you saying?"

"Your boss gave me a choice," said Sherlock; "Join him, or he'd kill both of us."

Moran licked his lips. "You're saying you chose to join?"

"Of course. I'm not an imbecile. I only apologize that I've never been able to contact you - Jim was insistent that we never have any form of communication whatsoever."

"You've spoken with him? I haven't seen him – haven't heard from him since that night."

"Well, no, you wouldn't have. He's gone off to Switzerland, dealing with the assets," said Sherlock.

Moran looked decidedly suspicious. "He wouldn't have left _him_ alive," he said, looking at me. "Called him an obstacle to be removed – said he'd never help us. He was never meant to leave the warehouse."

"John is my assistant; he _assists_ _me_," said Sherlock. His fingers tightened briefly on my sleeve. "He does as I say."

I didn't bother objecting: I was afraid to break whatever spell Sherlock was casting. Anyway he was still blocking my shot.

"He did say he wanted you to join us," Moran was saying doubtfully. "But how can I believe you now?" His grip tightened on the rifle. "If you are telling me to the truth, then prove it."

Sherlock rummaged around in his pocket and finally produced what looked like an etched silver ring. "He said you would understand the significance," he said with a shrug, holding it out.

Moran's fingers closed around it, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. "He trusts you – this much?"

"I've more than proven my commitment," said Sherlock. "I gave him my brother's last mole within the organization, that night. Moriarty shot him in front of me."

Moran cocked his head, clenching the ring in his fist. "The homeless fellow from the townhouse? They're blaming that one on me, you know."

"Yes, sorry, you're being set up to take the fall at the moment." Sherlock sounded faintly apologetic. "Jim said you'd understand – cleaning house, he called it. He'll be on the continent for a year at least, and he wants a fresh start when he gets back. Somebody has to fall on their sword."

"The Adair murder, of course. One or two others. He wants me to confess to all of it?" Moran made it sound as if this were a perfectly reasonable request.

"Of course," said Sherlock. "You'll be rewarded, obviously. It'll all be sorted out on his return."

Moran nodded shortly and seemed to come to a decision. "I need a little time. A few matters of business to clear up first."

"No more than twenty-four hours," said Sherlock, and his voice was sharp.

Moran's head bobbed briefly in assent. "My apologies, for the – " he motioned vaguely with the gun. "I was operating under the information I had."

"Not at all, not at all, it was to be expected. Commended, in fact. Loyalty of your degree is very rare. Jim sounded rather touched by the whole thing, frankly."

A faint flicker of a smile crossed Moran's face, quickly disappearing. "Well, then. I suppose I shall take my leave of you."

"Goodnight," said Sherlock.

"Until next time." He tucked the rifle under the fold of his flapping coat and turned away to melt into the shadows.

We both waited, silent, to be sure he was really gone. Then I collapsed against the nearest wall, my knees gone suddenly weak. "Good _lord_," I said.

Sherlock looked merely mildly pleased with himself. "Yes, that did come off rather well, I think." He came to lean next to me, keeping five or six inches between us.

"You're mad," I breathed. "God, you should have gone into the stage. You would have been amazing. I almost believed you myself."

"Only _almost_?"

"Well, I did see you kill him in front of me," I said. "Plus, I _am _rather touchingly loyal."

Sherlock's lip quirked.

"The _ring_," I said – "how the bloody hell did you know that would work?"

"Ah. It was found with the body, in a shirt pocket. Moriarty didn't wear jewelry so it must have been a gift, but he wasn't sentimental so obviously he had another purpose for keeping it. Ergo, a gift from somebody that he needed to manipulate or impress. The list of people who would give him a present is small. Also it was inscribed with the image of a snake – I don't think you had the chance to see it, John – so it was someone who knew his true nature; not Molly, not anyone who only knew one of his public personas. Simple deduction, really."

"I'm impressed," I said - but then, I always was. "Don't you think Moran will eventually figure out what we did? Sooner or later he's got to realize that we set him up, not to mention who that body really is."

"Moran is not the great thinker that Moriarty was," said Sherlock, with somewhat bittersweet nostalgia. "It's unlikely that he would have ever connected the corpse in the townhouse with his own boss – but unanswered questions are far more dangerous than false conclusions. People are always satisfied with false conclusions."

"But he'll be in jail for crimes that he didn't commit. Crimes that we actually committed."

"Only one crime he definitely didn't commit; he demonstrably murdered a good four or five of those people," said Sherlock, reasonably.

I shrugged. That did seem fair.

"There are a few things I don't fully understand, myself," Sherlock continued. "Moriarty was a terrible human being; he cared nothing for the wellbeing of his followers. Moran's loyalty was entirely wasted. He would have done better to use his brain and escape with as much of the financial gains as he could, not waste time trying to enact useless revenge."

"Erm, yeah. Not really the sidekick way," I said. "There's rules, sorry."

Sherlock shook his head, sliding closer to me, and I thought he didn't notice the long line of heat against my side. "He'll go to jail for him, kill for him, even die for him. Of course, Moriarty was a real genius; maybe not as clever as me, as it turns out, most disappointing, but still," –he waved a hand– "close, anyway. And Moran is – not particularly bright. In fact compared to Moriarty he's practically an idiot." His fingers crept back to my coat sleeve, and he was looking at me as though willing me to understand what he was really trying to say. "But he was the better man."

"Sherlock …" It's not that I didn't agree with him, as long as it was only _Moriarty_ he was talking about_._

"Moriarty was a genius and a sociopath," he added, his voice low. "I suppose that combination can fool anybody."

My fingers twisted around to find his, and I squeezed. "Sherlock," I said, with extreme patience, "You're not a sociopath."

"Of course I –"

"Stop! I know what a sociopath is, Sherlock, and they don't _feel_. They don't have emotions for people. Maybe that's what you'd _like _to be, but that's not you. There's nothing wrong with your lizard brain. It's just your giant cerebellum that trips you up sometimes."

"What are you talking about?"

"Alright. At the pool, when I grabbed Moriarty, why didn't you run? Perfectly logical, throw the dumb stooge under the bus – he's just cannon fodder anyway, right? Would have been the smart play."

"Don't say things like that," Sherlock muttered, looking away.

"But you didn't. You stayed with me."

"Only because I wanted to get Jim!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking scandalized that I was challenging his claims to psychosis.

"Give it up, Sherlock," I said with a sigh. "You're not fooling anyone. Lestrade knows it, Mycroft knows it, and I know it – you're actually kind of a good man. Sorry."

His mouth twisted, I assumed mostly in resistance to my bossing him about. "It's cold out here," he grumbled finally. "Why are we standing about outside the flat like idiots?" He nudged impatiently closer to my side, pulling our coats together like blankets.

"Let's go in, then," I said. I made to moved away but his hand closed around my own, trapping me in place.

"John," he whispered, gruffly. His gaze were fixed on the zipper of my coat.

"What?"

He hesitated, seemingly uncertain. Then one of his fingers brushed clumsily over my cheek, lightning-quick, and was withdrawn before I registered it as a caress. His hand hung in the air for a second, awkwardly, then dropped back down to his side. His other hand tightened in mine.

Oh God. He had never tried to initiate anything like this, except when there was someone around to watch; I had been assuming he was doing it for show, just wanting people to know that somebody could love him.

"John?" He was looking at me, too closely, and I felt my heart rate speed up. I had always been afraid that something like this would happen: he'd try to kiss me and I'd flinch away, or shove him off. So far I'd been able to keep my feelings under the radar because Sherlock evidently had rather strange notions about what constituted being in a relationship, and because he was better with evidence than with emotions. But he was a genius and eventually he was going to figure it out.

"John?" His voice was mild, concerned; my eyes burned. I didn't deserve this, his affection.

"Excuse me, Sherlock," I said, "I just … need a minute … "

"John!" He sounded alarmed now, alarmed and puzzled, and I twisted out of his grip and ducked away from his heavy arm, which came down to grab a hold of me.

"Give me a sec, I just need to – check my phone, I probably ought to call Harry, she must be worried. Haven't checked in in weeks! I'm just going to – take this, but I'll come right back. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"John!"

I fumbled for my phone and made as though I was hitting buttons, clamping the receiver to my ear and making the universal gesture for, _hold on, can't talk now, _as I stumbled around the corner and broke into a run.

I didn't hear him coming after me, so I pushed blindly on, hearing my own breath panting in my ear. God, what had I done? What was I _doing?_

I made it as far as the nearest pub and pushed thankfully inside, stuttering out a request for a pint as I buried myself in the furthest, darkest corner booth. Then I buried my face in my hands.

It's not that I wasn't fond of the fellow, obviously – it think it was clear that I was pretty damn fond of him, fonder than any straight man had ever been of his asexual flatmate. I hadn't lied when I said I loved him, although he was a right prat most of the time. It was like I couldn't help it.

And I had had mates before – even best mates, men I would willingly die for and who would do the same for me, in places where nobody else was watching our backs. But I hadn't felt about them the way I felt about Sherlock. I had never felt about _anybody_ the way I felt about Sherlock, not even the various women I had loved and lost throughout the years. I felt like – like if I could just cut open a space for him, I would pull him inside my own chest and keep him tucked away there.

Was that mad? I took a long draught. I couldn't decide.

I just wanted to keep him around, just wanted him _safe_, wanted him to be happy. I just – wanted to be there for him. I just – _wanted. _But was that enough? Was that what people were supposed to feel for each other?

Damnit, Sherlock had gotten me so twisted up about what love even was, anyway, that I couldn't make sense of it myself. I had started off one way, pretending to feel another, and now I couldn't remember the difference myself, anymore. Who was I really fooling, exactly?

I pushed my glass away – there wasn't enough beer in the world – then reached for it again; I could still try.

"I must say, I really can't advise this course of action," said Sherlock, sliding inelegantly onto the bench next to me.

Of _course_ he was there. And of course he wouldn't sit across from me like a normal person – he'd squeeze in besides me, blocking my exit. Of course he's scoot up against my side.

I took my glass and drained about half of it.

"John, you shouldn't be drinking," said Sherlock blankly, "you're _already thick."_

Completely deadpan.

I groaned.

"Plus, alcoholism apparently runs in your family," he continued, "it doesn't seem wise. Come home instead." I reached for the peanuts in the same moment that he reached for my hand, so I flinched abruptly when he seized it.

"I'm not done yet," I managed, my voice dull. "D'you want a pint? Barkeep! Another for my friend."

"I don't like beer," he said, petulantly. His spindly fingers caught hold of my own short, blunt ones. "And this establishment smells like feet."

I couldn't really argue with him there.

"Sherlock …" I broke off as another glass was brought over. I slid our joined hands onto my lap, under the table.

I couldn't believe we were doing this in the same pub where I met with the fellows to watch a match and talk about - well, mostly sex with women, actually.

"What's the matter," he asked, finally, his voice low. "Don't you want this?"

I sighed, rubbing my forehead.

"Go on, John. Just tell me. It's alright." His voice was even, unruffled, but I could see a hint of dread in his eyes, in the rolling pupils.

I didn't answer right away. Instead I thought about Sherlock, trying to summon every affectionate feeling I had for him. I thought about his feet on my pillow; his pathetic attempts to hug me; him, listening to a story I'd never told anybody before. Him and I, running through London together in the middle of the night.

I thought about how unlikely it was that he was here, warm against me, not out being shot at or tricked into poisoning himself or seduced by the drugs or Moriarty or any other godforsaken thing.

I thought about every time that his massive brain must feel like some kind of burden, instead of the incredible gift that it was.

"John?" I looked up. The booth was dark; our faces were close together, only inches apart – had he scrunched down in the seat? I moved in closer and his eyes slid closed. His breath wafted across my face. I knew I probably smelled like stout, but I pushed that out of my mind for now. I looked into his face and his expression was calm and certain.

I felt a tiny flush of – _something_. Maybe not burning lust exactly, just a faint, warm kind of … something. I hadn't been sure I would.

I inched closer, so that I could feel just the shadow of a touch.

I'd never had those kinds of thoughts about a man before. Was it just because he was so strange, so completely alien? Sherlock was almost closer to an insect than to a normal man …

"John, are you _thinking?" _asked Sherlock doubtfully, with his eyes still closed. "Only I can smell something burning."

"You prat," I said, smiling, and just that easily I leaned down and gently pressed my lips over his.

I had expected it to feel strange, wrong, but in reality it was just warm and soft, me and Sherlock together the way we always were, but even better, even closer, even more of him than I had before. I had to hold myself back, just holding our lips together in a gentle pucker, not opening our mouths.

He broke away first, but his eyes were soft. "So – not tossing me over, then?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I had a moment of panic." His fingers twitched in mine and I squeezed them. "I was being ridiculous."

"Yes, you were," he agreed, looping an arm around me to drag me in against his side. "But it's alright, I'm more or less used it by now."

He finally consented to sip slowly at my beer while I finished his, and between us we managed them both as I watched the match over the bar, and he deduced the lives of everyone around us. "Right," I said quickly, just as he was getting a little loud in his conclusions about the two men who were, 'without being aware of it, sharing at least one sexual partner.' "Let's get out of here."

"Good," said Sherlock , "these people are not worth deducing." He stood to let me get out of the bench, but blocked my access to the door. "Are you going to run off again?" he asked plaintively. "I had to think about it for almost ten seconds before I realized you'd be in here."

I used the cover of our coats to link my pinkie finger with his. "No," I promised, my voice low.

"Alright. Come along, then." He tugged me behind him out the door.

So we walked together down Oxford street, him standing a little too close as we walked, our joined hands in one of his voluminous pockets. The streets were full of people – it was a Friday night, I'd come to realize – but none of them gave us a second glance as we walked, and I didn't think I would care even if someone had.

"Oh, hold up!" he said, jogging across the street. "I need to pick up a paper." Of course he did: now that Moriarty was dead, and Moran out of the picture, he'd be looking for another crime to solve.

The light changed as I waited, so I headed down to the crosswalk to join him when the traffic cleared. Sherlock was waiting impatiently, flicking through what I'd bet was the obits.

Standing at the corner was a beautiful woman with a baby in a pram. She was blond and slender, the type of woman I would have gone for, once. I caught up with her as we crossed, and gave her a smile, and she glanced back and smiled too. For a moment the three of us were walking apace, and I thought about how _right_ we must look – her, me, and the baby, a smart little family. Everything I thought I had wanted.

"Come _on_, John!" Sherlock insisted, standing at the curb. "What on earth are you dragging your feet for?"

I bumped him with my shoulder as we met up, and it occurred to me as we walked away that she looked thin to have had a baby so recently. And although the pram looked to be a very expensive model, she was dressed in quite ordinary clothing. She was probably the nanny for some richer woman; that baby wasn't even hers. And I was in love with my flat mate, so really nothing was as it seemed. Sherlock was right; it was possible to see and fail to observe.

She headed down Regent Street towards Picadilly, and we were headed West, towards home.

"Idiot," said Sherlock, tangling his fingers back in my own.

"Shut it, you," I said.

.


	9. Chapter 9

.

**Chapter Nine**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

It was fortunate that this time there were no murderers lurking outside the door, as we were both feeling a little looser by the time that we got home. "God, I'm bushed," I grumbled, as we climbed the stairs and I unlocked the door. "Hurry up and get in, before someone else decides to try and kill us."

Sherlock at once dropped melodramatically onto the settee, brushing off his clothes as though the grungy pub had been an insult to his fastidious nature. It would have been more convincing if he hadn't had to _wade through stacks of pages_ to get to the chair; the entire flat was a fire hazard, thanks to Sherlock's habit of squirreling away random bits of paper. To look at it, our living room was being converted into a massive file annex.

"Tea?" I suggested.

"Fine. You know how I like it."

With-saucer, teabag on the side, no milk but he'd take a swirl of honey - Yes, I did.

I made up two cups and also dug out a packet of digestives from the cupboard, hoping they hadn't gone stale in the fortnight since I'd been to the shops. The plain kind, not the chocolate; his favorite. I whistled to myself as I carried the tray into the sitting room.

Only to find Sherlock asleep on the settee, head dropped down onto his chest, arms hanging limply almost to the floor.

I shouldn't have been surprised – he often crashed after a long case, as he refused to eat or sleep beyond the minimum until he solved them. One time I came home from a double-shift at the surgery and found him in the bathtub, mouth slack and drooling, the water long gone cold; that was the case with that Greek translator, as I recall.

"Sherlock?" I approached, somewhat cautiously. I hated to wake him, but I wanted him to eat something or at least consume liquids before he was out for the next eighteen hours. There was no response. He slept like the dead when he finally got to it.

I leaned on the arm of the settee. "Sherlock," I said, gently rubbing the top of his skull with my knuckles. "Up. Have a cuppa and then off to bed."

His eyes flicked open and he surveyed me calmly, as though he had merely been deep in thought – I suppose he believed it beneath him to be caught unawares. I set the tray in front of him and then retreated to the straight-backed chair, deciding it was probably best to keep a polite distance between us until things were a little more sorted out.

His mouth curled up in distaste.

"Eat something," I directed, "and then you can sleep horizontal, in a proper bed."

It was strange that, back in our familiar flat, things felt a little … different, from how they had in the dark corner of a secluded booth. The substitution of tea for stout wasn't helping, either.

I looked down at my hands as though they were suddenly fascinating.

Sherlock, rather than objecting to being ordered about as he would usually do, merely selected a biscuit and nibbled at it daintily, while I sipped tea and we sat together in uncomfortable silence. I don't know what he was thinking, but over in my head, I was trying to make myself understand that I had _kissed Sherlock. _I had put my mouth over his and held it there, with amorous intent, for pleasurable purposes. With _Sherlock Holmes. _And nobody had made me do it – yes, true, there had been a man with a gun pointed at me earlier in the evening, but _not at the moment the kiss had taken place_.

It didn't really seem to make sense in the world as I understood it, so I kept repeating it in my head to see if it would sink in. I had _kissed_. _Sherlock. _Kissed my roommate, this same roommate who was currently sitting across from me. The one that I had been complaining about to anyone that would listen ever since I moved in; that he never tidied, kept me up at all hours, nicked my things, and routinely lured vicious murderers into our home without warning me beforehand.

A roommate I had once watched, with great enthusiasm, peeling the skin off of frozen fingertips, exclaiming cheerfully, "look John, just like a latex glove!"

That was actually last Wednesday, come to think of it.

"John! Are you listening to me? I asked if you were finished yet." I snapped back to attention. Sherlock was glaring at me (he never liked being ignored) from over an empty plate. No digestives left: either he'd eaten them, or stuffed them down the side of the settee when I wasn't looking.

"Sorry. Right, yes." I reached to clear up the tea things, waiting for his hand to move before I collected his saucer. Then I made to withdraw back to my own seat with the tray.

His hand closed around my wrist. "Sit here, on the settee," he ordered.

Right. Perfectly logical request. I sank onto the cushions next to him, leaving a socially acceptable space.

Sherlock frowned, scooting closer. Our shoulders brushed, and I hunched up to make room.

He glanced over. "You can touch me," he said, uncomfortably. "I don't mind."

Not that he wanted me to, I noticed; just that he 'didn't mind.' I still couldn't quite understand that I had kissed him (kissed _Sherlock_, I had _kissed Sherlock_), but now I was also wondering if I might have pushed him into it. Did Sherlock even like to kiss? He was certainly a terrible hugger, and it followed that he might not be too keen on any of it, really.

Still, not wanting him to feel rejected, I slid obediently closer so that our knees pressed together. After all, I had promised that I wasn't going to run away again.

He huffed and leaned against my side, crushing our arms between us. I bit my lip at the wrench to my poor shoulder, but refrained from saying anything - instead, I worked my arm free and slid it around him. Although he should have been taller than me, we were suddenly the right height, so I knew he had slouched down to fit. "Hello," I said.

"Hmm." His voice was muffled by my shirt. I thought I felt his breath shuddering at my neck. His body felt tense and I wondered if he was nervous; I found myself rubbing his back, slowly, in small circles.

He sighed and, very slowly, relaxed against me.

_Oh, right. _Suddenly I could remember exactly how I had ended up kissing him last time. This was why: because he trusted me to do it.

I felt the wonder of it all over again.

Tentatively, I dropped my head to nuzzle against his hair, his temple, thinking how strange it was that he was _mine _– this strange, awkward genius of a man – not Moriarty's, not even somebody brilliant who deserved him … mine. I had the right to hug him, to hold his hand, to kiss him – he had given me that right, out of everybody he could have chosen.

His face turned up and, without thinking too much about it, or daring to check his expression, I brought our lips together. At first it was just the barest flutter of a kiss, but then his mouth slipped open and I very gently touched my tongue to the tip of his. He startled, but I had a grip on the back of his neck, thumbs stroking the short hair there, and I tugged him back in. After a moment he responded, cautiously, making a soft sound like a hum deep in his throat that I felt vibrating in my soft palate. He tasted of Earl Grey. He pressed forward again, inviting more, and I kissed him carefully, listening to the wet sounds of our lips as they came together and broke apart.

Before I could get carried away I pulled myself back, stroking his smooth cheekbones. "Is this alright?" I asked. "Too much?" If he said it was, I would stop completely, of course. I didn't want to scare him or overwhelm him – which was a strange thought, as Sherlock had always seemed completely invulnerable to me. A man made of ice, who could probably send me arse over teakettle with his public school fencing skills, if not his rapier wit. "Sherlock?"

He blinked slowly and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. He seemed calmer and more languorous that I'd ever seen him before – I wondered, involuntarily, if this is what he was like after sex.

"Sherlock? Do you want to stop?"

"It's fine," he said, somewhat unconvincingly.

I took his hand and squeezed it between my own. "Do you just want to sleep?" I offered gently, hoping I wouldn't get myself kicked for using my 'doctor voice' on Sherlock (he could be surprisingly aggressive for such an intellectual man).

No answer.

"Sherlock? Come on now, don't make me guess." He did so hate it when I guessed.

I could see him considering scolding me for treating him like a child, but finally he just sniffed in response and shook his head no. "Are you sure?" I coaxed. "I'm tired too, you know; I could do with a lie-in. We could go to bed early if you'd like."

He studied me for a moment. "Alright," he said at last, and I wondered if it was because he wanted to, or because he believed I did.

"Right. Come on, then, we'll go up – just to sleep. How does that sound?"

He shook his head as though to clear it. "It's fine, John," he said, impatient. "I'm tired, now. Can we go to bed?"

"Sure." I stood and waited for him to follow, and when he uncurled I reached automatically for his hand, as though we did this all the time – some light cuddling, a quick snog, and then off to bed.

He trailed after me up the stairs, still unusually silent.

We got to my room and I stacked up the files which were scattered everywhere, pushing them off into a corner. "Right. You're exhausted, get undressed quickly, and we'll get into bed." I turned around while he did it, listening for the sound of him sliding out of his trousers. Then I shimmied quickly down to my own skivvies and turned back.

"Did you want a shower?"

I blinked. "Er, hadn't really been planning on it," I said, puzzled; "Why, do I smell?"

"I just thought you might prefer it," said Sherlock stiffly.

I recognized a request when I heard one, so even though I didn't understand I went obediently to the bathroom and washed up quickly. I used Sherlock's shampoo and the smell of it rose with the steam.

I came back, now dressed in just a towel. "Alright?"

"Yes, thank you, John." He was still where I'd left him, standing at the bedside in his boxers. He looked – cold.

Selecting a new pair of pajama bottoms, I crawled under the covers and stretched out luxuriously. "Ah. Feels good." I looked up at him, standing there making no move to join me. "Nice and clean, now," I enticed. Nothing. Finally I sat up to pull back the sheets on his side. "C'mon, then, daftie," I muttered, reaching with my free hand to grab and physically pull him over onto my bed.

He came, sitting first, then drawing his feet up and sliding them under the covers. I held my breath while he reclined, slowly; he seemed to get stuck half-way. I waited. "Lie down with me," I whispered, finally, and at last he did.

I sighed in relief and switched off the light, reminding myself that Sherlock was probably exhausted and deserved an unmolested night of sleep, after all the trouble we'd had lately. I kept my hands to myself and concentrated on breathing slow and even.

Sherlock scooted into my personal space.

I smiled into the pillow and slung an arm over him to keep him there, feeling how cool his skin was where it pressed against mine. "Get some rest, eh?" I said. But I could feel his unnatural stillness next to me, tense and high-strung like a snake ready to strike. "It's alright, Sherlock," I said, rubbing his arm, "just relax, it's fine."

"I _know_, John," he answered crossly.

I felt the disruption in the mattress as he moved. There was silence. I closed my eyes.

Then I felt his fingers, delicately tracing up my arm, feeling the ridge of the basilic vein and from there inwards to the brachial artery.

I kept perfectly still, waiting to see what he would do.

From his breath on my cheek I guessed that he had propped himself up over me, and was looking down, watching his hands which were invisible in the dark. I imagined his face, serious and intent, and shivered at the feeling of cool, eager fingers sliding up over my ribcage, tugging lightly on the fine hairs scattered across my chest. Pinching at my nipples, testing their tensile strength I supposed or God knows what.

Still I said nothing, didn't move, letting him do as he wanted.

He slid his palms up under my armpits, finding the wiry hair that gathered there, combing through it to feel the sweaty crevice under my arm, and then up, over my shoulders, pressing on the muscles to feel their resistance. Barely skirting the ruined edge of the bullet wound. Always those careful, pressing fingertips, the faintest scratch of nails, just testing the texture of each new surface.

His hands drifted up over the line of my neck, probing the arteries and the faint bulge of my lymph nodes, the suprasternal notch, then percussing the bones of my jaw. I was guessing this was easier for him to do in the dark, when he couldn't read my expressions, although next he moved on to bones of my face; I could have named each one of them as he measured and judged their shape. _Mandible, maxilla, zygoma. _He lingered at the ridge of my eye socket, circling around it with his fingertip.

He was _exploring, _I realized; and no doubt also making deductions, as I had seen him do with a hundred insensate corpses. I tried to imitate one of them, sure that any participation on my part would only put him off.

He seemed especially interested in the various lines and signs of wear that my face betrayed - he pinched and rubbed at the wrinkles around my eyes, which I was sensitive about and which were also sensitive in themselves, but I forced myself not to flinch or turn away from his fingers. I had had my form of intimacy, on the couch, and this was his; I shouldn't be surprised that it might occasionally sting.

The feel of his warm, wet tongue slipping into my mouth surprised me; I sputtered and felt him jerk away in response, but I reached for him desperately in the dark and tugged him back. "S'alright," I muttered frantically, "Just surprised me, that's all, it's alright, come back." He grumbled and rumbled and I felt the heat of him against me, just before something wet and slimy touched the tip of my nose.

His tongue, I realized. It was his tongue moving slowly over the bridge of my nose and then down the line of cartilage, delicately up into my nostrils. I worked to hold back a sneeze. I kept my hands at my sides, clenched into fists around the bedclothes so that I wouldn't be tempted to reach for him. He lingered over the philtrum, the vermilion, and I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity.

Then he pulled away. There was silence, except for me, breathing hard. He didn't make a sound.

I tried to judge his position from the dips in the mattress on either side of my head where his hands must be resting, or one hand and an elbow, perhaps. I could determine the lay of his lower half from the weight of it against me, and I could imagine his face, his dark eyes. But what was he _thinking_? I could picture his body as clearly as if I could see it, but when I tried to guess his state of mind, I had nothing – of course I didn't, I could never anticipate his thoughts, I would have to be a genius like him.

Briefly I wondered if he thought what I had: _mine._ But probably not. No doubt he was just hypothesizing what I had recently eaten or walked past or inhaled.

He wouldn't waste his time with anything so absurd.

Suddenly I reached for him, groped for the back of his head which I found, my fingers sinking into the thick wool of his hair, and got a good grip so I could lunge up and _mash_ our mouths together, for at least a moment, before he pulled away and said he didn't want to do this anymore, that it had all been a joke or a test or an experiment, and it was over.

Unlike the other kisses I wasn't gentle this time. I pushed my tongue hungrily into his mouth, licking at the back of his teeth and holding him so that he couldn't possibly twist away from me, not yet, not until I finally had him the way I wanted, with no barriers between us. The wet press of him, slick with my saliva, only spurred me on, nipping and sucking at his plump lower lip. My other hand dropped down his back to the knots of his vertebrae, my fingers digging in.

There were a lot of things I wanted from him that he would probably never give me, and I accepted that – I did – but this was something I could have, and I was going to take it while I had the chance.

I was running out of air but I licked at his mouth as I pulled away, like a last taste. Reluctantly, I unclenched my fist from his hair and let him sit back. I thought I could make out the motion of him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then I dropped back against the mattress, breathing hard, and I waited for whatever he was going to throw at me. Perhaps he would be angry – probably I should apologize, for pushing him. But I didn't _feel_ sorry. I actually felt a hot rush of something close to triumph.

I felt his gaze on my face, and then after a long moment his voice rose out of the darkness, strangely unsure. "Is that really - how you feel about me?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yeah."

I expected him to back out now. Say he was done with the whole thing and I was on my own.

Instead I felt what I was pretty sure were his thin, cool lips, finding their unerring way to my temple, pressing there for a split second.

And I _really_ wasn't expecting what he said next:

"John, you may - penetrate me sexually, if you like."

I swallowed air, coughing violently, and had to pound my own chest. "_What_?"

"Yes. I don't mind," he said. He sounded as if he was discussing who would do the washing-up. Except we never discussed that, because he never did it.

"Well I would wish for a little more than _not minding_," I said acidly, when I'd recovered. "Stop talking nonsense, Sherlock."

There was a brief silence. "Did you want me to take a shower first?"

"Not the issue, actually."

Another pause. "You don't want to? I only thought you would prefer it, as I assume you are inexperienced with receptive sex. Of course we can switch it up, if you would rather."

"I wouldn't rather," I said hurriedly.

"So there we are, then."

I got up and switched on the wall light – this was a conversation I wanted to see his face for. He sat up in bed and I came to sit beside him, which was a good thing as my knees were about to give out.

"I, erm, had rather got the impression that you weren't – into that kind of thing," I started, carefully.

Sherlock looked surprised. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, you said you were – married to your work," I said. _Asexual_, I was thinking.

"A monk is celibate, but not because he doesn't enjoy sex."

"Right, like a monk!" I said, nodding. "So I didn't – I didn't think you'd want to."

"And yet you still agreed to be in a relationship with me," said Sherlock, his tone approving. "I'm touched, John, really. But no. I enjoy sexual congress as well as the next person, I suppose." His expression was not what I would expect from someone who was talking about something he enjoyed.

"Right. Um, well frankly Sherlock, I just don't think we're there yet," I said honestly. "We've barely done more than kiss and you're talking about – er, that. You're just - you're skipping some steps there."

"You wish to take it more slowly," Sherlock summarized seriously.

"Ah, if you don't mind, yes."

"But you enjoy penetrative sex."

"Erm, yes."

"And you like kissing me," said Sherlock, unblinking.

This was true; I did like kissing him, a little more each time.

"And you enjoy touching me in other nonsexual ways," he continued. "You also like to order me around, although it's futile. Although being the active partner is not in fact inherently dominating, heterosexual men have reductive minds and tend to believe that it is. So."

I got the feeling that he was trying to _deduce_ me into sleeping with him. It was … ineffective. "Sherlock ..."

I looked over and found him staring straight ahead, refusing to look at me. I bit my tongue. "Any other reasons," I asked, mildly.

He hesitated. "I would like you to," he said softly.

That was a pretty good reason.

I didn't have an answer yet, but I took his hand and rested it on my knee. "You've done this before, right?"

"Of course," he said. "You don't think I'm a virgin?" He looked over at me and his eyes widened. "You _did_," he said, his voice deep with wonder.

"I just thought it was possible!" I said. "I wasn't sure!"

"I've had sex a socially acceptable number of times," he said. If anyone would know that number, he would.

"I've, um, only ever had sex with women."

"I know," said Sherlock. "Your first experience would have been when you were quite young, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old. A schoolmate, no doubt, but older than you. It was a source of embarrassment to you when other people found out about it."

I started at him, mouth open; he waved his hand dismissively. "Your economic background and one or two particulars of your home life gave me more than enough information to draw some simple conclusions," he explained. "Plus there is your habit of tying your tie with your left hand."

"And what about your first time?" I inquired, determined not to think about how I did up my ties and what it could possibly say about me.

Sherlock grimaced. "I'd rather not say."

My whole body tightened up. "Oh God," I breathed.

"What? No!" He looked irritated. "Honestly, John. My first time is a merely a little embarrassing. I was seventeen, living in London. The family came up for my birthday that year."

"Yeah?" I had no idea where he was going with this.

"Mycroft was concerned that my … intellectual pursuits were stymieing exploits into other realms of endeavor. He hired me a very well trained - _courtesan_, as a present."

"Mycroft got you a hooker?"

Sherlock's face flushed in annoyance. "She was very good at her job, I can assure you."

"Right. Of course." I nodded as if this made perfect sense, but in reality I was stuck on _hooker_.

"There were a few others, of course, in prep school, and Uni," Sherlock continued. "Non-professionals, I mean."

"Women, then? You've only been with women?"

"And men," said Sherlock, studying my expression quite intently. "One or two. But this is going to be an entirely new experience, John, and I'm sorry to say you'll have to be a little patient with me." He smiled beatifically. "I've never been with somebody who _loved _me before."

I realized, in that moment, that I would never tell Sherlock the truth about the way my feelings had evolved, about their humble, not to say deceitful, beginnings. I would never tell _anyone_: not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not my blog, even if the entry was blocked. I would go to my grave without admitting it, and if somebody asked me I would lie. I would forget the truth myself.

All that mattered was how I felt about Sherlock now.

"I suppose you've been with scores of people you've adored," he said disparagingly, as if caring about lots of people was something to be ashamed of. "A lover on every continent, I suppose."

"You make it sound like I'm some kind of lothario," I snorted. "I can assure you plenty of people find me perfectly resistible."

"I can see that," said Sher.

"Oi! You're the one asking _me -"_

"Yes, but are you going to agree?" Sher looked ... hopeful.

I thought about his face when he said he'd never been with _someone who loved him_. What kind of life, what kind of people had he known, until I'd come wandering by? I recalled my own thoughts from just a moment before: that there were things I wanted from him that he would probably never give me, but this was something I could have. Now this was what he wanted from _me_, the first thing he had asked me for, really.

_I'd like you to, _he'd said.

I guessed I wasn't going to get the chance to go slowly, after all.

"Alright," I said finally, my voice gone hoarse and low.

"Excellent, John!" Sher looked like he might be about to clap his hands, but restrained himself. "How exactly would you like to proceed?"

It sounded like I'd be taking the lead - fortunately, I'd been half-hard since he licked my nose (as strange as that sounded) so at least I was, er, up for the task. "Here," I said, "lay on your side for me." When he did I instinctively settled close behind him, afraid he might be feeling exposed. He was too tall for me to spoon so I just kept my head propped up on my arm, my other hand stroking around his stomach. "Lift your knee up to your chest," I coached. "This is a better position for you, it should make it – more comfortable."

I caught a sight of Sherlock's face and thought he looked faintly amused. But what the hell, it's not like I knew what I was doing. My most relevant experience was the preparation for a kidney transplant. "Good," I said anyway, even though I was pretty sure that he was mocking me, now.

I eased down his boxers and stroked the exposed flank, carefully, the way I might stroke the dashboard of a car I couldn't afford to drive. "That's good," I whispered. "Just relax." It seemed crazy to talk to Sherlock like he was some kind of child but I guess in this particular situation he might as well be.

I tried to be careful, take my time - fingers first, lots of slick, knowing that his internal sphincter had to be coaxed open slowly. Lucky I had the supplies. I didn't offer to turn the lights out; I wanted to see, his high, narrow arse and his humble cock. The way his eyes flicked to mine, impatient.

"I'm ready," he said, ten minutes later, through gritted teeth. "Do it."

"Another finger," I said. "Relax your bottom for me."

"Now, John!" he rolled onto his stomach. "I assure you, my rectum is sufficiently stretched." He lifted his hips to illustrate his point.

"Christ, you're a bossy git. Just - let me know if I'm hurting you, alright?" There was a long, awkward fumble with the condom (hookers, you know, not to mention intravenous drugs), and then an anxious moment, my heart in my throat. Then I was all the way inside him, holding him carefully still so he wouldn't be damaged; he was silent except for a soft sound that had me instinctively pressing my face against his cheek, soothing.

It wasn't like I thought it would be. I thought it would be rough, intense – Sherlock being such a force of nature. I can't remember much about that first time, except that the closeness of it, his soft panting breaths as I moved, the feeling of him tightening around me when he came. Our fingers locked tight together. I remember the relief of having managed it successfully.

It was a lot different than having sex with a woman.

When it was over we lay side by side, my hand rubbing over his back and backside, trying to help him relax. "Let me see, Sherlock," I said, l talking in a low, gentle voice, like I would use with a skittish horse. "Did I hurt you? Here, now, just roll over and lie still, there's a lamb." I tugged his pants off his ankle and he lay back and let me, his eyes slitted in the dim light. Without waiting for permission I lifted his legs to spread them, so I could examine his tense little arsehole. I cleaned him up with the pillowcase, which we wouldn't be using again. Then I ran a quick hand over each of his legs, finding nothing to cause concern; obediently he presented each limb as it was demanded. "You're alright," I told him, drawing his slender, over-large feet into my hands. I pressed my thumb into the rounded arch of his foot and he gave a grunt of pleasure. I looked up to find him heavy-lidded and complacent.

"Told you," he said, smugly.

I switched out the lights and kept clear of the wet spot when I crawled back in the bed. He squirmed against my side and I rolled my eyes, waiting for him to settle. "Are we sleeping, now?" he inquired, as if he thought I'd be up for it again soon.

"Yeah, if you'd stop moving around." When he flopped onto his back I stretched over to lie across his chest, my head on his shoulder. It felt strange to lay this way; I never would have, with a woman. But the other way didn't really make sense, given our respective sizes. I felt one of his arms curve up behind my back, seemingly by instinct, sliding under my shirt against my ribs. I closed my eyes.

I'd expected him to dump me off him in the night, but for the first time we'd slept together he didn't move until morning. At one point I thought I felt him snuffling at my neck and the top of my head, his sharp beak nosing through my hair. "I honor you above anyone," he whispered.

It was an old-fashioned, roundabout way to say it; I drifted off to sleep thinking that it sounded like something you'd engrave in a ring.

.


	10. Chapter 10

.

**Chapter Ten**

_In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him._

_._

_._

I stopped writing in my blog after that. It didn't seem right, to share with anybody else what I had with Sherlock; I liked keeping it all to myself.

Lestrade – who had been immensely smug, for weeks, about having 'caught' the townhouse killer on his own, with 'barely any help' from Sherlock – mentioned it first. "No new stories, John?"

"Haven't felt much like writing," I said, with a shrug.

Mrs. Hudson was next: "Well now, Doctor Watson, I'm very sorry to see that you have stopped putting your adventures up on the internet." I hadn't even known she'd been _reading _them: "Oh yes, dear, it's the only way I ever know what Sherlock is up to!"

Then a text from an unlisted number: _No updates, Doctor Watson? Must I reassemble the surveillance team?_

"Menace," Sherlock muttered.

Finally a random fellow in a _pub_ overheard our names when we paid our tab, and asked "wasn't I the chap with those online detective novels?" Erm, yes, I was. His hearty clap on the back, with the exhortation to "put up a new one, why don't you!" had Sherlock tugging me out by my coat-sleeve (he had an aversion to other people touching me, I'd noticed).

"It's no use, John," he said finally, as we sat together watching tellie – or at least, I was watching, while he was maintaining a steady stream of commentary on the actors and adverts. Pretty soon I'd be getting him off just so I could watch an hour in peace (he got dozy, afterwards).

"What's no use?"

He shoved in against my side and my hand dropped automatically to his shoulder, patting him absentmindedly. He had me quite trained now to respond to his slightest requests for attention. "No use in you ceasing to produce your little fictions."

"Do you want me to start it back up? I thought you didn't like them," I stroked his hair as I spoke, trying to remember a time when I _hadn't_ wanted to do this. A time I would have been afraid to touch him, even if the thought had ever occurred to me. As my fingers passed his ear I gave it a tug and he snarled, pretending to twist away, but then he pushed his face into my thigh for more petting. Damn moggy.

"I don't like them. They're inaccurate and sensationalized, and you usually manage to get in a dig about how ignorant or rude I am."

This was quite possibly true, so I said nothing, merely stroking his spine and watching, over his head, as somebody from Edinburgh won a free car. "So, you should be happy I've stopped then."

"It's become evident that people enjoy the stories." Sherlock looked perturbed. "Maybe you should continue to produce them, and just try to do a better job of it."

So, based on that sterling suggestion, I did start posting again, first with a short, dry recap of our adventures at the pool. Much to my surprise, there were three thousand hits within the first 24 hours: evidently I – or Sherlock, anyway – was really becoming quite popular. Which was fortunate, as at that time I was still out of a job.

I started making things up after that. Obviously I couldn't write about what really happened to Moriarty anyway, so that whole case was a work of fiction, and even when we got back to solving regular crimes I altered the characterizations. I kept Sherlock the way he had seemed to me when I first met him: distant, cold, calculating as a machine. I wrote John Watson as a bit of a simpleton (Sherlock's comment: "it's nice that you're becoming more realistic, John,") and Sherlock as some kind of heroic figure, never bending, never wrong – less and less like the living, breathing man in my bed with every story.

I'm pretty sure that Sherlock liked having people see him that way, anyhow.

"What did you mean by calling me _implacable_," Sherlock demanded, a man who still claims he doesn't read my blog. "Is that really a compliment?"

I was lying on my side, stroking his cock with my hands as he very irregularly and inconsistently did the same to me (he was terrible at this. It was apparently the _one thing_ he could not instantly master, just my luck).

"Hey, I had a lot of trouble coming up with that word," I said. Squeezing to watch him lift his hips, his eyes closing in pleasure. He liked that. "I went through _incorrigible, inveterate, _and _inexorable _before I settled on _implacable_. Really seemed the most complementary of the lot."

"I should _not_ have shown you how to use the online thesaurus," he grumbled.

I laughed and rolled over onto my back, and he climbed obligingly up on top of me. I leaned up to kiss him, which he accepted, his hands sliding up to rest at my shoulders, his eyes on my face.

"John," he asked, stroking my jaw with his thumbs. "Can – can I be the penetrative partner this time?"

I had wondered how long he would wait before asking for this; I was sure he had thought about it. "Please, John," he murmured, nipping at my neck (he was a bit of a biter). "Please, please, please." I had never heard him beg before, although he had often ordered or demanded.

I had my misgivings.

There was a lot to like about having sex with Sherlock. The way he got clingy during, his fingers latching onto my wrist, or my clothing if we hadn't managed to get all the way undressed. The way his eyes widened when he came, as if _every time _it took him completely by surprise. How when we were done, he was so sensitive that every touch lit him up like a Christmas tree.

Things I loved less: that he sometimes texted Lestrade or the yard to let them know he'd be "unavailable" at certain – shockingly specific: _7.38 to 8.15 pm tonight_ – times. "Everybody knows what we're doing, Sherlock," I protested; "you couldn't be a little more discreet?" (I only ever found out about these things after we'd done it, specifically when I asked _why he was checking his watch)_.

"You're too repressed, John," he said, irritably, like I was being crazy, like most people telegraph their sexual encounters to anyone who will listen. He was also apparently in the habit of openly discussing our sexual relationship with Mrs. Hudson, which meant I could _never look her in the face again_.

But the big thing was that he was, in all honesty, a bit selfish in the bedroom; eager to receive but rarely initiating much, always expecting me to provide what he was looking for with very little effort on his part.

Could I really trust him with this? I had never done it before, never wanted to either, never thought about it much.

But then, he had let me do it to him. Repeatedly. Really, it only seemed fair . . .

"Of - of course," I said, finally. "Of course you can, I've only been waiting for you to ask."

So that was how I found myself leaning against the headboard of Sherlock's bed, feeling a bit ridiculous as he got himself sorted out behind me. I didn't have great expectations as I held my breath, waiting for him to push in.

It hurt like hell; it was too soon, and I was still dry and tight. But I didn't protest, having promised I would let him try. I just kept quiet, trying to relax as he drove forward, relentless and persistent - _implacable - _in a way I should have expected.

He braced himself and _pushed_, and I felt myself letting him in - like being split open, like being turned inside-out. I couldn't help a moan as he bottomed out, and his hand whipped around, fast as a snake, to take hold of my limp cock – the pain had taken the wind right out my sails. Then Sherlock was pulling out, frantically, as I sighed in relief. "John, I'm sorry," he said urgently, "why didn't you tell me I was hurting you?"

"It's alright, Sherlock," I said, although he had been a little rough; "I'm a big man, I can handle it."

Gentle fingers stroked my hip. "The other fellow liked it like this," said Sherlock, in a small voice.

I had discovered that I didn't like thinking about Sherlock's past sexual explorations – I was guessing they were troubling and sad, and I didn't like to hear about them. I certainly didn't want to know what depraved individual had let a complete stranger go at him like that, and if he'd treated Sherlock in the same way, I would kill him.

"Yes, well," I said, "it's different when it's somebody you – care about." I didn't even notice, then, that I had mixed up the order from how we usually had it; _somebody who cares about you. _"Let's just try going a little slower, hmm? It'll be alright. Come on, give it another try."

"No, I don't want to, anymore," said Sherlock, backing away from me on his knees. "I don't – I don't like to hurt you, John."

"Sherlock," I said, feeling guilty now – I was sure he liked to top, and I didn't really want to ruin him for sex, having already lured him into this relationship under false pretenses. He had turned away and was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I scooted over next to him. "Don't be a baby," I said, which was totally inappropriate given the context. "Just take your time, and then I'll enjoy it." Probably. Possibly.

"Don't want to," said Sherlock, pouting now.

"Come on, Sherlock, just get everything nice and slick first," I said, and I couldn't really believe I was even saying things like this, but - "I promise, you're not hurting me; you're doing this for me, because I asked you to. I want to, okay?"

"Really?" Sherlock looked doubtful.

"Of course I do. I just haven't – done it before." Knowing how possessive he could be, I decided to continue along this train of thought; "You'd be the first one, Sherlock, the only person I've ever let do this to me."

He was listening, I could tell.

"The first and last," I promised.

"Well, alight," he said, sounding mollified. He uncurled and crawled across the bed-sheets towards me, looking rather alarmingly predatory, all of a sudden.

We finally found a position that suited both of us: me, straddling Sherlock's legs and slowly lowering myself down, so that I could control the rate of descent until I was ready. Having managed to instruct Sherlock in the proper etiquette of preparation, I was able now to take all of him and quite enjoy it – or at least not feel the pain that I had last time.

I think Sherlock preferred the position as well, because he could read every thought and expression that flashed across my face – and anyway, he liked to take advantage of any opportunity to watch me fall apart.

I began to move, slowly at first, then with more confidence.

I suppose I had fallen into the habit of thinking of myself as Sherlock's minder, always thinking of his needs and his feelings, and if he'd eaten or if he was cold or if he was guessing my thoughts and might be hurt by them. Even when we had sex, and I was inside of him, I was always concerned that I might be hurting him, or that he finished first (always first, or I couldn't), and that he was feeling properly connected to me and not like those other times.

But now I'd finally given him everything I could give him; I'd literally taken him into my body, and I had nothing else to offer, and for the first time perhaps I could think about myself.

I bent down and kissed him, and maybe he felt some difference too, because he closed his eyes and relaxed and let me do as I liked, sucking lightly on my tongue but not trying to hold my head or direct the pressure or any of the other things he liked to do. He just let me tell him, with my body, with my mouth, that I cared for him, and would always care for him.

He came, which felt – _Christ – _very weird, but I was glad that he had managed. I wasn't sure I'd be able to – I had no pressure on my cock, and it wasn't like I could finish any other way. Sherlock pulled out as he softened – I muffled a gasp – and then he took me in hand, stroking firmly, tighter at the head, almost _squeezing _– and I came like a fountain, my fingers clenching around the sheets. His eyes were fixed to my face, just studying my expression, emotionless. He didn't push me off for once, just tightened his arm around my waist and pulled me in against him, so I was panting into his shoulder. My vision was blurry, dazed as he stroked my hair and gently arranged me on his chest on top of him.

"Was it alright?" He asked, doubtfully, as we came down together. "We don't have to do it that way, if you don't like it."

"We'll figure it out," I said, still trying to catch my breath. "Seems like something of an acquired taste."

He still looked uncertain, so I leaned forward to kiss him, resting our foreheads together. "Sherlock, I love you," I said.

He was looking at me, amused. "I know that," he pointed out.

"I know I said it before," I said, "but now I'm saying it _knowing _what we're like together, and it's different." This was as close as I could come to explaining, without saying something that might be hurtful. I kissed his smooth cheek, then nuzzled there with my nose. "I love you."

He didn't say it back and I didn't expect him to – he never had, after all, in all the time we'd been together. I didn't feel like I deserved that, anyway. Not yet.

"I know you had – doubts, at the beginning," he said finally, in a rough voice.

I paused to look down at him, going suddenly still. "You did?"

"Of course. I'm not thick, John." He stroked my face with one of his massive hands, big enough to cradle my head from temple to my jaw. "Who wouldn't? I'm not – I'm not exactly an _easy –"_

"Very easy," I said swiftly, cutting him off; I didn't want to hear him put himself down. "Too easy. Easy for me to love."

"Yes, well," he muttered, "you are something of a special case. As I was saying, John, I know that you did not always know your own feelings for me, precisely."

I laid my head against his chest, feeling small and chastened. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Nonsense, my good man." One of his arms drifted down to my shoulders, holding me against him. "It was only to be expected. But do you know, I have never placed great emphasis on words or communication. I knew that you loved me before you did."

"Did you, then?"

"I _deduced _it, John," he said, brightly_. _I could hear his voice turn to the tone he used while explaining his thought process on a case. "Let us observe: You are always more careful of my feelings than your own. It is my wellbeing you are concerned with, before anything else. And even when you cannot comprehend my intentions, you endeavor to think the best of me. What am I to assume, then?"

"Sherlock …"

"I can only deduce that you love me. It's the only logical answer."

I still felt that perhaps Sherlock was missing the point of my admission, but with his cock tucked between my thighs it was a little difficult to argue with his reckoning.

"What do you conclude, Watson? Can there be any doubt that your feelings for me are, and always have been, completely sincere in their respect and affection?"

I leaned up to kiss him, wishing that I could have seen it all so clearly from the start. "Brilliant, Holmes!" I said, with just a hint of my former hero-worshipping avidity.

He smiled, demurred modestly; "Elementary."

.

**FIN**

.

.

_A/N: Whew, I can't believe it's over! Except I guess it's _not _really __the end - not yet - because I've started a parallel fic to this one, written in Sherlock's POV and covering some of the same events. So if you enjoyed this story I hope you will try _**Dangerous Assumptions,**_ which is less plotty and mostly deals with Sherlock getting in his own way and being copiously awkward. _

_Meanwhile, thank you _so much_ to everybody who read this whole thing, and particularly those of you who dropped me a line to let me know what you think. You have no idea what a difference it can make! _

_Hope to see you soon ~ __Cora._

.


End file.
